


Ever Changing, Ever Climbing

by Roselightfairy



Series: Finding a Voice [17]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (in both senses of the tag actually), Angst, Blood and Injury, Child Legolas, Depression, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Elf Culture & Customs, Extends through canon and beyond, F/F, Family, Fire, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Mirkwood, OC life story, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Partings, Pregnancy, Probably Incorrect Silmarillion Lore, Reunions, Romance, Sexual Content, Shaky grasp on Middle-Earth geography, Spiders, Taking OCs Out of the Refrigerator, Thranduil's A+ Parenting, Very minor Legolas/Gimli, War, depictions of violence, siege
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-01-24 22:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 112,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21345946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy
Summary: “Love among elves is not a craft,” she said, “not something to be created and finished and left on a shelf or put to use.  Our love is a vine that grows along with us: ever changing, ever climbing.  Our hearts seek out those whose lives will twine with our own, who will weather the storms when they come and blossom come springtime – who will change with us into whatever shapes our lives end up taking.”In all the years that an elf might live, she might experience triumphs and sorrows uncountable by mortal thoughts and still have more to learn, more to become.  Laerwen Thranduiliel has spent all her childhood being shaped into a perfect princess, but she will learn that there is much more to the role - and to life - than she ever knew to expect.  Siril, on the other hand, has never been ambitious, but when she at last heeds the urgings of her heart, she finds herself swept unexpectedly into the royal family of the Greenwood - and proves to be exactly what it needs.The life and love story of the Princess of the Greenwood, from the late Second Age to beyond the Fourth, as she and her wife journey through love and war, darkness and loss and unexpected joy, and learn who they are - together or apart.
Relationships: Legolas Greenleaf & Original Female Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Thranduil/Thranduil's Wife
Series: Finding a Voice [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/939402
Comments: 168
Kudos: 70





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Like many of my stories, this one begins with the sentence, "I didn't mean for this to happen."
> 
> A long, long time ago, when I set about to write a Legolas/Gimli story, I realized I needed to imagine a few things about Legolas's family dynamic. I ended up giving him an older sister . . . and that sister ended up taking over my mind in ways I had never anticipated, until she demanded her own story-- so here it is!
> 
> If you are coming here from my main Legolas/Gimli series, some of these OCs will be familiar to you. If not, I hope I've given them enough description that you can come to know them as I do.
> 
> Oh, and if you're coming here from that series, you may have noticed that I stuck a LOT of OC family members into the refrigerator. This story is my best attempt at taking them out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: we're going straight into NSFW territory in the first chapter!

They are waiting for Laerwen on the shore.

Her ship steers itself without her command now, a sign that she travels where she is meant to be – and it is a good thing, for she can pay no attention to anything other than the three Silvan elves standing on the beach of Aman, their dark hair and skin marking them boldly different from all those elves who came so long ago to these golden shores. They will not be the only ones, now; she heard the reports of Ithilien’s dispersal long ago, and she knows that many among their number set off here as well – but they still stand out to her as different, their call more _ real _ than this land that some small part of her has almost believed a fantasy.

They look alike, she thinks – she does not know why it strikes her so now, when she has known all of them for so long – but she has never seen them stand together thus before, all three of them. Legolas was too small when their mother sailed – and Laerwen has not asked him of it, but she has always wondered how much he knows of her, how much he remembers.

_ Knew_, she reminds herself. _ Remembered_. For now he has known her for a thousand years, here with her and Siril; all of them here together, when she was a world away –

They look like they belong together, and she cannot help wondering if there will be space for her, now that she has come.

Her ship glides smoothly towards the dock, and a set of elves seem to appear out of the air to catch her mooring rope and guide her in. They are all light-skinned like herself, but silver-haired and slender as wraiths. Laerwen is Silvan, too, even if she does not look it, and she feels almost too solid here, ungainly and awkward as she never was in the forest of her home, rigid with defensive walls built up over four thousand years of strife and struggle and responsibility. Does a warrior like herself truly belong here, in a land of peace and safety?

The peace for her is not this shore, but the small huddle of three that awaits her – but she cannot help wondering if they will still have a place for her.

She takes a deep breath and, leaving her ship to the harbormasters, leaps ashore.

They do not rush towards her– sensing, perhaps, that these steps need to be her own. But as soon as her feet touch the ground, her impatience – the longing that drove her from her home – takes over. Each stride is longer than the last, until she nearly takes flight into the space they have made for her.

Legolas’s arms rise just slightly as she approaches, as though he _ knows _ she must come to him first. She has seen him more recently than the other two, but in this moment it matters not – she sweeps him into her arms without hesitation and holds him close.

He speaks not a word, but trembles against her and lets his head come to rest against her shoulder. Words spill from her lips, murmurs of comfort and sorrow and joy all at once in some combination of all their shared languages; she hardly knows what she says, but only notices his almost dazed silence. He stood alone, she noticed it as she came in, and she dared to hope that it was out of a desire to welcome her on his own – but wrapped in her arms, he need say nothing to let her know that it is not so. He is alone because he has no other choice. And she is selfish – she is _ so _ selfish – but she cannot help feeling relieved, amidst the grief, that he has managed to hold on. That he has waited for her to come.

“I am sorry, Legolas,” she murmurs, and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

He shudders in her arms and says nothing.

She holds him for a small eternity – only one of the many that await them – before he finally relaxes his hold on her waist and slides from her grip. Her arms are cold when he releases her – but not for long, because for the first time in two thousand years her mother has pulled her into an embrace.

“_Nana_,” Laerwen gasps, the breath pressed from her by the strength of her mother’s arms and the bliss of being held within them once more. She surpassed her mother in height before she had reached her fiftieth year, but Cuindis embraces with the power of one three times her size, and Laerwen feels like a child again: safe and protected.

And then her mother smooths a kiss over her cheek and steps back, and she and Siril are face to face.

There is so much Laerwen has dreamed of saying in this moment – but now that it has come upon her, all her words have fled. She can only stare at Siril’s face – a face some part of her has feared for a thousand years that she would never see again, but a face which has remained perfectly emblazoned on her memory nevertheless – her mouth open, her words absent.

She realizes that her lips are parted as if to speak, but not even breath moves between them. One hand floats up and comes to hover, trembling, beside Siril’s cheek – but she cannot reach forward the last inch, cannot dare to touch.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees her mother wrap an arm around Legolas’s shoulders and guide him gently away. Part of Laerwen wants to call them back – they have so much to say to one another still, so much to relearn – but mostly she is frozen, staring.

Finally, Siril gives her the tiniest sliver of a smile, and beckons with one hand. “Come, then,” she says, and the miracle of her voice is almost enough to send Laerwen to her knees right then.

Instead, she follows.

The home is small, not in a tree but built low in the shade of a grove – it seems Siril too has not let go of the memory of long _ yéni _ living beneath their shadow rather than within their boughs. Or perhaps she merely settled here in memory of Laerwen, or awaiting her arrival on these shores.

At that thought, heat flushes from Laerwen’s cheeks to her toes, and she wonders why she waited so long.

They have not touched yet – not in a thousand years, two thousand, Laerwen can remember nothing so petty as numbers on so momentous an occasion – but she felt the weight and warmth of Siril’s eyes on her face, on her body, and it is all she can do not to flush like a youth first coming to know her beloved as her own. The yearning died down to near nothing, after the first years, in the one great mercy of their indefinite separation, but it is back again as though it never once left her.

Not only that, but she feels once more that shyness, that uncertainty that has so rarely been her companion since her mother’s departure, since she settled fully into her role as heir, as successor, as her father’s protégée.

That burden is gone from her shoulders, now, and she does not know who she is without it – but here, under the heavy heat of Siril’s gaze, she finds that she is willing to learn.

So long as her love is still willing to learn beside her.

The door falls shut behind them and Siril braces her back against it, palms flat against the wood beside her hips. Laerwen feels her own body rotate towards her, the face of a flower to the light of Anor. Siril stands half a head shorter than she, but she is larger, softer – oh, but she is warm and soft all over; unbidden Laerwen remembers how it feels to be enveloped in the folds of her body, and blood rushes into her cheeks despite long self-taught lessons in holding it back.

She has not blushed in an age, and here she is young and uncertain, longing for her beloved’s touch and yet fearful to ask. She finds she does not know how any longer – even on the shores, she did not know what to say, where to move, whether to reach out. Siril did not complain when Laerwen embraced Legolas first, did not move to touch her even afterward, and Laerwen cannot help but wonder if that was out of understanding or reluctance. Siril has never been demonstrative before others, after all, but – but still Laerwen stands tongue-tied and tentative before her and wonders if perhaps something has changed between them, if perhaps she herself is the reason.

The years have changed her, she knows: loneliness and bittersweet longing, the urge to keep living even with half of her gone, have created a soft-hard shell around the tenderer parts of her. She needed it, that she might yet find joy in the things that were left to her without losing it all in the longing – but already it is melting back into her, the strange magic of Valinor working until it has softened inside her, but not disappeared. And now she stands here under Siril’s regard, and she is at the same time vulnerable and young, old and weathered, and she wonders if she is grown uncomely in her beloved’s eyes. Or if Siril has changed as well, in ways she has yet to reveal – she wonders if they have grown too jagged to fit together as they once did – and yet heat pulses in the air between them, and she _ longs _ to be touched.

But Siril does not speak, and so, it seems, it is for Laerwen to break the silence.

When she speaks, it is not in the Silvan tongue they share casually, but in the perfect Sindarin she knows from her father’s court. An old phrase between them, often used to soften moments of tension, to show willingness, submission. “_Melethril, dannan am ochin nîn ob hen_” – 

But the words make it only halfway out of her mouth before she can no longer speak.

Siril surges forward like a wall of water and Laerwen the shore she will gladly break upon; Laerwen feels before she sees, her tongue trapped before it can form the last words, her eyes closed before the blur of motion can resolve itself in her mind; she has no need for other senses; she is wrapped in the warmth of Siril’s mouth, of her arms, and they are kissing.

All words are wrenched from her mouth and her mind alike; all her sense is lost in the heat between them; she has no more substance than water or wind; she is dissolving into Siril, into a gentle breeze under the hottest sun, and Siril is the meadow she sweeps over, but the blades of grass do not even bend. She pulls back just enough to gasp Laerwen’s name, and then they are fused together once more, and kissing, and kissing, and _ kissing_.

Laerwen _ moans, _ a sound of utter submission that some part of her remembers is shameful; for a moment her pride struggles to resurface – but that pride is a new thing, born of years and ages of loneliness, of responsibility without release, of hoisted-on strength she has worn for the eyes of others. All that is forgotten, washed away, in the bliss of this.

When next she surfaces into sense, she is lying on her back on the bed with Siril heavy and warm above her, trailing kisses along Laerwen’s jawline, sucking lightly at the sensitive skin between neck and ear. Her hands are busy in Laerwen’s hair, unbinding the traveling braids, and Laerwen moans again, as abandoned as before, at the feel of it: her hair has known no hands but her own in thousands of years; she has forgotten how good it feels; how much it – _ oh_. And Siril is rocking back and forth against her hips, gentle pulses that generate more heat, low in Laerwen’s belly and at her core; it throbs inside her, and she _ yearns _ –

She comes to herself enough to remember that she ought to reciprocate, and indeed it has been long since she has felt her wife’s skin beneath her hands and lips. She tilts her chin up to nibble at Siril’s earlobe, though her mouth feels clumsy from long disuse; raises her hands to undo Siril’s hair in turn – but then her wrists are caught in a grip loose enough that she could easily break free, but strong enough that her whole body goes weak.

“Not now,” Siril murmurs, gentle but commanding; the low huskiness of her voice undoes Laerwen entirely, until her hands would fall limp to the bed if Siril were not holding them fast. “Now is for you.”

“Oh,” Laerwen groans, the sound wrung from deep in her smoldering belly, and Siril laughs, low and warm.

“You have had a long journey,” she says, still in that purr that makes Laerwen’s hips surge up and off the bed, though she tries to keep them restrained. “And the years have been long for you in ways that they have not worn at me. Let me tend to you, my love. Let me care for you.”

Some great lump of feeling surges up within Laerwen’s chest. It hardens in her throat for a moment until she cannot breathe around it – and then, abruptly, it melts in a rush within her. Some of it spills out her mouth in a sound like a whimper, and for a moment she wonders if she will weep, right now, from the sheer magnitude of emotion.

“Did you miss me?” she finds herself whispering, like a child desperate for reassurance.

Siril’s mouth covers hers again, long and soft, and her fingers sweep over Laerwen’s cheekbones. “More than anything,” she whispers back, puffs of cool breath over damp skin. “More than all the forests on Middle-earth, more than the wind and the rain and the song of home.”

Laerwen lets out a shuddering breath. She has not felt so soft, so vulnerable, in a long time – and Siril rises up, her powerful legs braced on either side of Laerwen’s hips, her hands hovering over the fastenings on Laerwen’s tunic. “May I?” she asks, and Laerwen nods.

Siril undresses her slowly, carefully, her eyes and lips traveling down Laerwen’s body and caressing every new patch of skin as she exposes it, until Laerwen is trembling beneath her with the effort to keep from writhing. Her breath comes in short pants and long shuddering exhales, and still Siril moves maddeningly slowly, peeling her tunic aside, easing down her breeches and underthings, until Laerwen lies naked and exposed before her.

Then Siril sits up, keeping her weight on Laerwen’s hips even as they arch once more beneath her, and reaches up with a smile and sparkling eyes to unpin her hair.

Siril has always eschewed the need to be desirable before others, and for that Laerwen finds her even more so – she keeps her hair shorter than her waistline, and always pinned into a knot at the back of her head. Few besides Laerwen know its loveliness: the lush crimped waves that fall free to enfold her face when loosed at last from their long constraints – and few besides Laerwen know how easy it is to pull free. She keeps the same hairstyle, the same pin Laerwen gifted her with at their wedding two ages ago now, and Laerwen knows that even now, even after so long apart, things are not so different between them.

Siril sheds her own clothing with less care and more speed, and then she bends down, hair and breasts and belly all spilling forward to envelop Laerwen’s own. Laerwen can no longer keep still; she reaches up to touch, and Siril lets her this time, lets Laerwen caress her breasts and her earlobes and all the sensitive places that she remembers still, even after all this time.

And then Siril’s own hand ventures down.

Laerwen cries out at the touch of her fingers: circling, then sliding inside, tracing unerringly a path that Laerwen herself seems to have forgotten; sensation awakens again beneath her touch, where it has lain so long dormant; now Laerwen feels the stirring within her, the reawakening, the memory – but it is more than memory; it is also _ now _ and _ forever more_.

Siril’s lips are moving now, crooning broken-off lines of love, humming snatches of song, as though the sight of Laerwen below her cannot but move her to poetry. This too Laerwen remembers about her, the way all the words she does not speak outside the bedroom spill out during lovemaking—and she loves it, loves seeing her quiet, watchful wife lose control of her own tongue.

For herself, Laerwen has forgotten words entirely; all she has left is sound: gasping and groaning as Siril’s fingers and lips melt all her composure and eloquence into liquid heat. Siril whispers half a line of a long-loved poem and Laerwen’s hips jerk forward without her control. The motion drags Siril’s fingers over the sweet spot inside of her and Laerwen cries out again, loud and unabashed, and Siril smiles and kisses her and does it again.

It does not last long; Laerwen has been so overwhelmed since the beginning that she is surprised it takes even as long as it does for the building wave of pleasure within her to crest, for her vision to white out in the foam as the wave crashes down. And perhaps Siril would have made it last yet longer; her determination makes Laerwen think that she would not have been satisfied with once alone – but to her own surprise, the flame of lust washes away in the flood, and Laerwen finds herself curled on her side, weeping for reasons she does not understand.

Siril withdraws her fingers and falls to her side as well, pulling Laerwen’s head to her and cushioning it against her breast. She is soft, so soft, and warm, and home, and Laerwen has thought herself at home for so long, but she was wrong, so very wrong, and why did she not sail sooner?

“Hush-sh-shh,” Siril croons quietly to her, stroking Laerwen’s hair and squeezing her hip with gentle fingers, but she does not ask, and that makes Laerwen want to tell her.

“I am sorry,” she whispers finally, tasting the salt of her own tears on her beloved’s skin. “That it took me so long to come.”

“It took you as long as you needed,” Siril corrects, kissing her damp cheeks. “And you are here now.”

“I suppose so.” But it does not feel right. “But I could have been” –

“You were where you ought to be.” Siril is firmer this time, and Laerwen lets out one last half-sob before her breathing calms. Even now, with this newly-rediscovered softness, composure is too easy, a cloak she is long used to wearing. “And now you are where you belong as well.”

“Yes,” whispers Laerwen, and she tips her face up to brush her lips over Siril’s. “In your arms, in your bed,” she manages a smile, “at the mercy of your very skilled fingers . . .”

Siril laughs. “Lewd as ever, Highness.”

Laerwen dries her eyes and sits up. “Of course,” she says. “But now I would serve you, if you would allow me.” She withdraws until she is at Siril’s hip, swings one leg over to mimic her wife’s posture of before – but lower down. With a smile, she repeats her words of earlier – warmer now, no longer uncertain. “_Melethril, dannan am ochin nîn ob hen._”

“I had thought to tend to you further,” says Siril, but she rolls onto her back without protest, and Laerwen catches a smile flickering at the edges of her mouth.

“If you are willing, I think it is your turn.” Laerwen lowers herself to her elbows, until her face hovers just over Siril’s pelvic bone, her breath stirring the dark curls there, her hands curving around Siril’s hips. “It has been long, but I think I yet remember how to do this…”

And with Siril’s smile encouraging her, she lowers her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Melethril, dannan am ochin nîn ob hen_ = "My love (lady), I fall to my knees before you."
> 
> EXTREME thanks go out to [katajainen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katajainen/pseuds/katajainen) for supportive, thoughtful, and generous beta work, and to my own personal Gimli [thevillainsmustache](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thevillainsmustache/pseuds/thevillainsmustache) for talking me down and loving me for the months and months that I've been working on this.


	2. Part I: Blooming; Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jumping from the end to the beginning... here we go!

“Ha!”

Laerwen cannot hold back her cry of victory, and the sky itself answers her: an unexpected sunray gleams off the edge of her blade as she brings it around in the last sweep of the complex disarming maneuver. Her opponent’s sword twists and falls to the ground, and Laerwen brings the point of her own blade up to rest against an imaginary throat – and then subsides, panting and grinning at the empty space where her invisible foe bows and acknowledges defeat.

If Nimloth could see her now! This move has thwarted her for weeks, the individual motions of the maneuver refusing to connect as smoothly as she knew they ought – and finally she has carried it off with perfection! Likely it is  _ because _ and not in spite of her lack of an audience. Permission to take free time to practice alone – without even any guards – was hard-won and entirely worth the pleading: her father and her masters alike have agreed that her performance has benefited from it.

She allows herself one more moment to bask in the pleasure, and then takes a deep breath and widens her stance once more. One time completed does not mean a mastery, after all, and she would have the motions ingrained by the time she returns to Nimloth for her next class, so she may test her new skills against another blade.

This time, however, she performs the motion in silence. It is nearing late morning, and that is usually when – she tilts her head to the side, breaking her concentration for one half-instant that would allow an opponent to get the best of her in a true bout, but she cannot help listening for – there!

The slight rustling in the bushes, just a bit too substantial to be a squirrel or a small bird; the momentary pause and then slight shift in the ongoing harmony of the trees and grass and woodland creatures – and then the deliberate resuming, as though not to draw attention to the change.

It has happened too regularly lately to be a coincidence: Laerwen has begun to suspect she is being watched.

The presence does not feel malignant or dangerous, no prickling at the back of her neck to warn her of danger – and anyway, she has come here often enough of late to trust that if the intruder meant her harm, the grove would have warned her that something was amiss. For this reason, she has said nothing to her father; he would insist on investigating, on taking the mystery from her silent companion. For her part, Laerwen is merely intrigued by it – who can it be who makes so little noise in the forest and yet chooses to spend time watching her at practice?

She chafes sometimes under the restrained canopy of her everyday, the lessons and mundane duties and responsibilities to family that give shape to her life. Not enough to be ungrateful – her family is honest enough with her that she understands in theory at least why a child of a royal line should be aware of her duty – but there is a small part of her that wishes for the freedom of anonymity.

It is not so much that she could not climb to the sky beyond, if she wished it – but without the sight of it, without that understanding of what freedom is, how can she even imagine what she would reach for? This mystery has become something small, something secret – something she shares only with this other unknown person who also loves this small glade. Laerwen knows not who it is, but only that the presence causes no instinctive alarm – indeed, it has become something she almost looks forward to, a secret friend, for all they do not know one another’s names.

She promises herself that she will ask soon enough. But for now she takes up her blade once more, relaxes into her stance, and resumes her practice.

* * *

From her spot within the bushes, Siril cannot help smiling.

She ought not to be here. She ought to leave – she ought to have left the first day she stumbled across Laerwen Thranduiliel practicing swordplay in an abandoned clearing; she ought to have run in the opposite direction and found something else to divert herself. And since she did not then, she ought not to have come back – she ought not to come back as often as she can.

But the princess intrigues her too much for her better judgment.

She had seen Thranduil’s daughter only once before she first came upon her thus at practice: when her mother had towed her along to visit Hethundir at the hospital where he worked – back when she had still held out hope for Siril herself. Only once – but the princess is unmistakable for any other, and when Siril first came upon her here, she knew her immediately.

Her mother was thrilled, then – had crowed all evening about her pride in her son, in his skills that had earned him work at a hospital frequented by the royal family. Doubtless she would be thrilled again now, if she knew of Siril’s fortune – would turn the waterfall-force of her full attention on Siril for the first time in years. She would delight in Siril’s interest – and it is exactly for this reason that it is so unwise of her to pursue it.

It is exactly for this reason that Siril will never reveal it.

It would feel like a betrayal of a friendship she has done nothing to deserve or earn, a trust that has not been bestowed upon her to tell her parents about the way the princess’s eyes light up; her shouts of triumphant laughter when she is particularly pleased with herself; the way she tilts her head up to the sky and extends her arms to soak in the faint filtering rays of sun. Quirks that make Siril smile, and which she does not deserve to see.

But there is something in the way the princess moves – the pride of her posture, the fluid self-assurance of her stances – that fascinates Siril, that draws her eyes and holds them long beyond when she should look away. Siril has never loved weapons or their wielding, but the princess makes it a dance.

And now she comes every day to watch, even as she knows she ought to stop.

It is inevitable, she supposes, that she will one day be caught.

Usually, when she has finished, the princess departs by way of the trees – Siril knows her path now nearly by heart – but today is different. Today, she sheathes her blade as usual – a long fluid motion of the arm and it sings back into its sheath – and instead of departing, she stands for a moment, as if thinking. Then she turns deliberately to the trees where Siril stands concealed and says, “Won’t you come out?”

Caught! Siril’s heart freezes. She cannot move – perhaps if she stays still –

What? The princess will somehow forget that someone has been standing here, watching her?

A moment of silence, and then she speaks again. “I will not hurt you.” She pauses, and seems to reconsider. “Well, unless you mean to hurt me first. But I think if you do, you will be rather unpleasantly surprised.” She pats the sword at her hip.

Not surprised. No feat she might perform with that weapon could shock Siril, not after watching for so long the grace and ease with which she wields it.

“Come out?” the princess tries again. Her tone is cajoling, almost a plea – but, Siril remembers with a shock of dismay, this is the crown prince’s daughter, and anything she says might as well be a command.

Trembling, she parts the leaves that have kept her hidden and emerges cautiously into the clearing, dropping to one knee as soon as she is fully within sight.

The princess beams. “Well met,” she says. Siril has heard her voice before, but never in speech – certainly not directed at her – and it is powerful and clear as a sunray. “I had begun to wonder if I was mistaken after all about my . . . covert companion.” She winks, and Siril wishes she could turn into a tree. “I am glad that my instincts do not fail me.”

“No,” says Siril, her head still bowed, her eyes flickering up despite herself. “I apologize for watching, Your Highness.”

The princess brushes that all off. “Laerwen,” she says, lowering herself to sit cross-legged – closer to Siril’s still-kneeling height.

Siril blinks at her. “Thranduiliel,” she adds, feeling foolish even as she says it and wondering why it has fallen to her to remind them both of their places.

Laerwen waves a hand. “Well, yes,” she says, as though having the crown prince for her father is nothing. “But I hope that does not stop us from being friends.”

Siril can only stare at her. Friends? Laerwen has been aware of her spying, and instead of demanding her motives, she offers her friendship? This is not, she is fairly certain, the way royalty is meant to act. She has heard tales of the prince Thranduil’s antics at celebrations, of his delight in sport and mischief, but – but perhaps she did not truly believe them.

“Anyway,” Laerwen says, “if you should happen upon this clearing again,” mischief dances in her eyes, and Siril ducks her head at the reminder of being caught, “know that you need not hide. I would be glad for you to come out and greet me openly.”

“Ah,” Siril stammers. Is this a request? Ought she to return? Or should she run away now and avoid this clearing for the next hundred years at least, hoping that will be long enough for the acute humiliation to fade?

Doubtless the latter would be the wiser course, but her mouth opens without her consent and she finds herself blurting, “Yes. Ah, I could – do that. I suppose.”

Laerwen smiles, and abruptly it is too much – Siril cannot bear the raptness of her gaze, the intensity of her focus. She squeaks some semblance of a farewell, barely managing to toss it over her shoulder, and flees.

* * *

Laerwen cannot help it. She follows.

Part of it is mere prudence, of course. This maid has been watching her at her practice, after all – and now that she has been found out, to run immediately is suspicious behavior.

That is how she justifies it, at least. How she would explain herself if her intentions were to be questioned.

The other elf is swift, but Laerwen can already tell she is faster. She hangs back, keeps her strides as silent as possible so she will not be found out, and takes the opportunity to observe the maid who has been observing her for so long.

She is clearly Silvan, which is hardly a surprise – most of the Sindarin elves in the forest reside in the palace, with Laerwen’s family and their semblance of a court, and this elf runs in the opposite direction – with deep brown skin and dark hair twisted into a knot at the back of her head. A few wisps have come free of the silver pin holding it in place, and Laerwen admires the way they flutter in the dappled sunlight.

The other elf slows after some time, and Laerwen ducks behind a tree just in time to watch her sink her head into her hands and curl her fingers into her scalp.

Strangely enough, it is this motion that solidifies Laerwen’s certainty that her shadow means her no harm. It is so charming, so guileless – simple embarrassment at having been caught watching, nothing more.

The maid looks to be around her own age, Laerwen cannot help noticing. And if she has nothing more to do than to watch Laerwen about her practice, if she was on her own, without a companion –

Perhaps she merely feels the same way Laerwen does. As though, for all they have exchanged no words before today, for all Laerwen had never seen her face before, they have formed some kind of secret, wordless companionship.

Perhaps she too merely seeks a friend.

“My lady,” Laerwen calls out, before she can lose her nerve, but from a safe difference away. The other maid’s head snaps out of her hands and she whirls to face Laerwen, her cheeks flushing a deep, vibrant red. “I will be here again in two days’ time.”

And now it is her turn to flee.


	3. Part I; Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laerwen and Siril contemplate one another.

"Focus!"

Laerwen hisses as Nimloth's practice staff cracks across her knuckles; she fumbles her own staff, but manages to keep it in her hand. She senses more than sees the follow-up blow coming, and dances back, giving ground as Nimloth approaches but at least avoiding a jab to her gut.

Nimloth does not press her attack, which is never a good sign. She ought to have followed up on Laerwen's distraction; that she did not –

Nimloth's staff raps the ground between Laerwen's feet. "You are not fighting with all your self today, Laerwen," she says. "Since we all know what happens when a warrior is not paying proper attention, I think it best you retire to the sidelines until your eyes are clear again."

Laerwen steps back, her cheeks burning. Behind her, someone giggles. Ranion, that lout. Well, she will have her revenge. "You are right, I confess, and I am sorry." Her apology is genuine, even if her motives are not. "But is it not likely that a warrior should become distracted sometime in true battle? Ought we not learn how to fight when our attention is diverted, so that we may be prepared for any eventuality?"

Ranion's quiet snickering turns to a groan as he realizes where this is going, but Nimloth speaks before he can. "All warriors are offered distractions," she snaps. "What kind of warrior succumbs to them?"

She glares out at all of them, and Laerwen feels marginally guilty at having subjected the rest of the class to this. "A dead one," they chorus.

Nimloth does not seem to notice the dullness of their voices. "I must have told you all this a hundred times" –

"A thousand," mutters Iruion. "At least."

He is immediately smacked into silence, but Nimloth only spares him half a glare; taking her own advice to heart, she does not allow herself to be diverted from her rhapsody. "A warrior takes in every detail of her surroundings, at all times," she says. Laerwen's lips move silently along with her words. "You must see everything, hear everything, and make it part of your knowledge of your surroundings. You must open yourselves up to the song that surrounds you, so that you can feel for any change in the harmony, any note out of place" –

Laerwen lets Nimloth's words become part of the very song she describes, tuning them back to a low hum in the back of her mind as she settles back into her usual position beside Ranion. He jabs her in the upper arm. "You never can take a scolding with grace, can you? You must punish all the rest of us for it."

Laerwen only gives him her most innocent smile, watching his irked stare crumble into a quiet, defeated laugh. Meluiwen giggles as well, and she and Laerwen share a conspiratorial glance.

These two – they are her friends, Laerwen supposes. Of a sort. But Ranion was more right than he knew when he chided her for her inability to take a scolding, for she knows it reaches deeper than mere pride. While they may all pretend they are merely students here – and Nimloth makes sure to assure them that they are all treated solely according to their merit – she knows that the other students are watching her. She cannot be anything less than the best; she cannot let them believe she is given any honor she does not deserve – and she cannot let them doubt that the royal family is prepared to protect them, either.

She ought to feel the same self-consciousness with the unfamiliar girl she met in the forest – but that is different, somehow. That maid has been observing her for some time indeed, has observed her successes and failures alike, and were she put off by it, surely she would have given up her vigil in disgust long ago.

Again it crosses Laerwen's mind to be suspicious of her intentions, and again she simply cannot believe that they are untoward, despite all evidence to the contrary.

And again she is letting herself be distracted!

She senses Ranion's second jab coming just in time to duck away, watching him swipe at empty air. Beside them, Meluiwen muffles another snicker.

"Pay attention this time," whispers Ranion, "so we need not again pay for your indiscretions!"

He is right, of course, and she was being childish before. The impressions she is making today! Laerwen straightens up and shakes the thought of the unfamiliar elf out of her mind again.

"I apologize," she whispers, and turns to face forward again, where Nimloth is finishing her latest litany.

"Laerwen," the sword master says crisply. She began paying attention none too soon, it seems. "I believe I have changed my mind – I am not finished with you yet."

"Of course not," she says hastily, and paces forward again to stand before Nimloth.

"I would have a demonstration of your skills, I think," Nimloth says. "With one of your classmates. Who will volunteer for the privilege?"

Most of Laerwen's fellow students shrink back, and she fights a strange combination of pleasure and chagrin at their reluctance to duel her. Meanwhile, Ranion and Meluiwen engage in a none-too-subtle shoving match; Meluiwen is the one stumbling forward at the end.

Nimloth's sharp eyes have missed none of it; she raises a brow and says dryly, "Thank you for volunteering, Meluiwen."

Laerwen and Meluiwen exchange a glance – a brief friendly rolling of the eyes – before settling into their stances as opponents. Laerwen takes a deep breath, centers herself in her body. If she has been performing these maneuvers before the eyes of her unknown companion, she can certainly repeat them without distraction when the maid is not here to observe.

Anyway, she has pride to recover.

Meluiwen moves first, a low feint at Laerwen's shins meant to destabilize her – but she can see from the solidity in Meluiwen's own stance that the blow will have no follow-through. She shifts her weight just enough to avoid the tip of Meluiwen's practice staff, but brings her own up at the ready when the real blow comes from the other side.

Their staves clash; Laerwen drops back a step and continues to wait. Let Meluiwen exhaust her own attack first.

After a few more similar maneuvers, sighs from the other pupils indicate that their audience is losing interest. "Frightened, Highness?" comes Ranion's voice from their huddle.

"Not as much as you were," she retorts, dodging the next attack and keeping her eyes on Meluiwen's wrist, looking for an opening. She hears more laughter from the other pupils, but ignores it, looking for – there!

Quick as a hunting bird, she darts in beneath Meluiwen's guard to catch her staff with her own, brings their locked wrists down, and _twists _–

Meluiwen's staff rattles on the stone ground.

Yes! Laerwen does not let the triumph take hold of her just yet – just as she practiced yesterday, she kicks the staff away across the ground and brings the end of her own up to rest at the base of Meluiwen's throat.

A beat, and then reluctant applause from the surrounding crowd. Meluiwen steps back and bows, and Laerwen does the same.

"Well-fought, both of you," Nimloth says. At least she is as free with praise as with criticism. "Meluiwen, we will work on your tells next lesson, so your opponent cannot read you as easily. Laerwen – I can see you have been practicing. Impressive use of the disarming maneuver."

"Thank you," Laerwen murmurs.

Nimloth looks over all of them, surveying. "That will be all for today. You all know what you must practice before we meet again next week."

Laerwen joins Ranion and Meluiwen again as they pack up their things and prepare to depart. "Well fought," she offers Meluiwen – and then, with an arched eyebrow at Ranion, "And well avoided."

He grins, unrepentant. "Did you think I was eager to face Nimloth's star pupil?"

"You certainly seemed spoiling for a fight to me," counters Meluiwen, poking him in the shoulder.

He laughs. "Well done, both of you. Shall we?" He offers Meluiwen his arm and she loops hers through it. Before they depart, he tosses back over his shoulder, "Until next week, Highness."

_Highness_. Laerwen sighs. For all their camaraderie during lessons, always she is Highness to them, always they depart together without an invitation to her to join them. So it will always be, it seems. For all they may enjoy her company, she may enjoy theirs only when it is demanded of them.

Perhaps that is the reason for her fascination with the maid she met in the forest. For whatever reasons – untoward or not – there at least is someone who _wished _to seek her out.

And will she still wish to do so, now that Laerwen has called her out of her silence?

She supposes it remains to be seen.

* * *

The bole of the young beech is rough but cool against Siril’s cheek; the thrum of its song is lower and steadier than any of the saplings or herbs in her garden, but not nearly as set in itself as the older trees where her family has built their _telain_. This is a place that knows her and accepts her when all else seems vast or demanding.

It is for this reason that she has been hiding here for nearly two days.

She has nuts and berries aplenty here, and she has always kept her braiding things in a hollow log. She can stay here as long as she likes, and she will not be missed for a few days yet, at least –

Well. She will not be missed _at home_.

Is it true that her absence will be noticed, if she does not come to the clearing today? Can the princess – Laerwen – have truly meant her offer? Surely she would not have followed Siril halfway home to repeat it, had she offered it only casually. But does she mean it as an invitation, or as a trap? And does Siril dare to take the bait, either way?

She gazes down at the half-begun project in her lap – the strips of fabric waiting to be braided and wound together. She chose cool blues and dark greens for this project, meant to imitate the sight of the sky peeking through the thickly-woven branches of the forest canopy, but something about it feels _off_ to her now: drab, incomplete. Or perhaps it is merely her own discontent, her own agitation, that keeps her from seeing how the pattern ought to come together.

This has always been enough for her before: the peace of her garden, the low thrum of the forest-song. She does not need company the way her parents seem to, and their attention is better avoided than commanded anyhow. But some part of her must desire it – must want something else, something more. Had she not, she would never have stayed, that first day she saw Laerwen at practice. Did she not now, she would not be so tempted to return.

She looks down once more at the fabric in her lap – and then off to the side at her pile of spares, of extra colors. Almost without her permission, one hand sifts through the pile until she finds a long strip of dark yellow, the closest she has to gold.

The sky through the trees cannot be blue without the sun, after all.


	4. Part I, Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for some extremely earnest awkwardness.

Even as her feet draw the familiar path to the princess’s clearing, Siril cannot believe her own daring.

Every time she has come here before, she has promised herself it will be the last – that it is not worth the threat of discovery. And now that she has been discovered, she ought to take that as a sign never to return. Especially two days ago, especially after the princess followed her halfway home, she ought to have heeded that warning.

She ought not do this.

So why is she here? Why did she stow her weaving away in its hiding place; why did she leave the safety of her garden; why does some force beyond her control pull her along? It seems that with that one interaction, the princess sank a hook into Siril’s spirit and now reels her towards a second meeting, for all that her sense screams not to seek it out. Perhaps it is her curiosity, her strange sort of oblivious humility – the way she is all that Siril never imagined a princess would be. Perhaps it is the habit that has so quickly formed. Perhaps it is something else entirely.

Laerwen is already there when Siril arrives; did she come early on purpose? “Well met,” she calls, as soon as Siril has arrived, and Siril notes the keenness of her ears. There will be no concealing herself today – not, she supposes, that her efforts were effective before.

“Hello,” she says cautiously, parting the shrubs as though she had no intent of hiding this time. As though all her instincts are not screaming at her to turn and flee again and pretend she was never here.

Laerwen smiles brightly when Siril emerges. “I am glad you came!” she says. “I realized that I failed to learn your name before. Forgive me my poor manners.”

“Not poor at all,” says Siril. The poor manners were far and away her own. “But – my name is Siril, your high” – Laerwen raises an eyebrow, and Siril’s face goes warm – “Laerwen.”

Laerwen nods approvingly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Siril.” She does not ask for the names of Siril’s parents; instead she merely looks down at the sword in her hand, and then says – a little more hesitantly – “Are you also a student of the blade? Perhaps you have pointers for me.”

Doubtless she is seeking the reason for Siril’s spying, and Siril’s cheeks heat further as she shakes her head. “I fear I have no advice to offer. I have neither the skill nor the inclination.” Was that impolite? She ought to be interested in what interests the princess – and anyway, now what excuse will she give for her presence here?

But Laerwen does not pry. She turns a flash of grey eyes onto Siril as if she understands that more lies unsaid beneath the words – but when she speaks, her voice is light. “Well, that is no matter. I was merely curious.” Siril cringes at the politeness that she does not deserve; the unspoken trust the princess displays in not demanding Siril’s reasons for her presence. “This clearing is my favorite place to practice,” she says, changing the subject abruptly.

Siril waits for her to continue, but it soon becomes clear that the princess is waiting. “I love it here as well,” she offers instead. “I have spent many a happy afternoon here, before I” – She bites her lip. “Before I stumbled upon you at practice,” she says in a rush.

“Oh?” Laerwen turns the full force of hopeful grey eyes on her, and for a moment their gaze holds Siril transfixed. “I confess, Siril, it has been long since I remembered the wood as a place to explore and love, rather than merely a series of tasks to perform. Would you mind” – She flushes as well, very lightly, the faintest hint of pink in her cheeks – “that is, would you tell me why you came to love it here?”

Siril blinks, taken aback, unable to answer this most direct of questions. Laerwen flushes deeper. “Forgive me if I overstep,” she says in a rush. “I did not mean to speak so freely, if it brings you discomfort” –

“No!” The word falls from Siril’s mouth with an abruptness that surprises her, but her face cools as her own blush fades away, her own surety – something that has been so long absent – returning. The princess has ever seemed so confident, so joyful, in her hours here; Siril did not stop to think that surely Laerwen’s life cannot be as free as her own, even if her encumbrances might be of a different sort. “I mean, I am happy to share it with you, if you seek more than merely a place to practice.” She draws back the foliage that has concealed her so ineffectively these last weeks, and beckons Laerwen to join her. “You know already of how peaceful it is here, so that I will not presume to tell you, but here” – She hoists herself up into the low-hanging branch of one of the trees that draws the shape of the clearing – a branch that bows low and long enough for her purposes, but is sturdy enough to support even her weight. “This branch makes a lovely swing, I find – long enough that it sways a bit with your motion, but sturdy enough that you can sit here lost in thought without concentrating.” She has been known to bring her braiding things here from time to time and spend many pleasant hours on a project.

That was before she found Laerwen here, of course.

Laerwen loses no time in climbing up beside her, shifting her weight on the branch to make it sway back and forth and beaming in delight. “Oh, this _is_ lovely,” she says, and Siril sees in her face the same joy in life that accompanies all her movements, and she cannot keep from smiling in return.

Laerwen catches her looking. “What is it?” she asks.

“Nothing,” Siril murmurs. It is only that Laerwen is so different from her mother and all her friends – and she never thought to see such an expression on the face of a royal.

Again Laerwen lets the moment pass, with a generosity Siril does not deserve, and bounces happily on the branch for another moment before letting herself down with a regretful sigh. “Well,” she says. “As much as I wish to learn more from you, Siril, I did come here for a different reason, and I confess that my practice here is my own particular delight in this place. Still,” and she looks up at Siril with the hopeful expression of before, “I should be glad if you stayed. Will you?”

“Oh!” Why is she so flustered again, so easily? But when she has been coming here without invitation for so long, how can there be any other answer? “Of course I will. And” – She blushes again – “I thank you for the invitation.”

And this time she remains in her swing-seat, in full view, as Laerwen retreats to the center of her clearing and takes up her sword once more.

* * *

Laerwen can never be entirely certain when she will manage to steal back to her clearing. It is every few days or so that she manages to claim a moment to herself, and luckily she is rarely detained when she announces her intention to go work on her forms. Her martial-minded father and grandfather encourage it – and sometimes she catches them exchanging grim glances when they think she is not looking, silent confirmation of the necessity of her practice. She does not sit in council with them often – that will come, her father has promised – but she is watchful enough to understand that there is a growing threat around them, that they all suspect the time may come for her blade-work sooner rather than later.

Because she never knows when she will manage to come, she never makes any announcement of her intentions. But it seems to matter less as time goes on, for nearly every time, Siril is there. It seems they have somehow developed a synchronicity, an understanding of one another that allows them to move easily into the same space without needing to speak of it.

She does not know exactly whence it comes, for Siril has made it clear that she does not study the blade – but Laerwen finds, as she teases snippet after snippet of conversation from Siril, as she comes to enjoy the other maid’s company more and more, that she has no complaints of it.

* * *

After several meetings, Siril decides that her fascination with Laerwen must come from the way she makes motion into an art.

She cannot understand – when weapons have held no interest for her before – why she cannot take her eyes off the princess when she moves, why her gaze is so drawn to the flash of sun off the edge of the blade. But there is a beauty to the motion of it all – a practiced originality, each movement newly invented, no matter how many times she may have done it before.

Siril is no master of the craft of braiding textiles, but she finds it similar to dancing: winding body and fabric alike into fluid patterns that seem to go on even after the motion is complete; knowing the way each pattern will fit into the next, even when they do not yet exist together. She wonders if she might try to weave the way Laerwen moves into a pattern – but always there would be something missing. Laerwen captures something in the grace of her body that can never be repeated in a braid or textile.

It is like a dance, the way she moves, each stroke of the blade flashing with enthralling purpose, and Siril cannot tear her eyes away –

“Would you like to try?”

Laerwen breaks out of her pattern with an abruptness that is not reflected in her body: flowing from a stance into a more neutral posture, but holding the blade out – _offering_ it – to Siril.

Siril shrinks back – the blade may be beautiful in Laerwen’s hand, but even the thought of taking it into her own is a reminder of its deadly power. “No – no, thank you.” She may love the way the blade-work looks, but she does not love the death it yields. She has no desire to hold it in her hand.

“Are you certain?” Laerwen withdraws the sword, but does not lose the expectant look in her eye. “You were moving as though you wished to join.”

“It is like a dance,” Siril confesses, “and I find it beautiful to observe, but – but I have no love for fighting or weapons, at least not in my own hands.”

Laerwen does not even hesitate. She sheathes the sword, and turns back to Siril. “What do you love?” she says. “Will you show me?”

* * *

It is odd, for they have known one another such a short time, but being in Siril’s garden is more familiar than she could have imagined.

Laerwen remembers when she was young, before she had reached her majority and before her lessons in diplomacy and statecraft began, before even she was trained with a blade. She remembers a time before even her lessons were all dancing and singing, listening to poetry and reading it herself, when her time was her own and her mother would take her into the forest. She remembers playing in the dirt and listening to her mother sing, learning to climb trees and falling again and again, bouncing up from the ground with the elasticity of childhood. Remembers learning about the Silvan blood that flows through her veins, even before she began to learn of her Sindarin heritage and her strange place in the world.

Here, she watches Siril flit back and forth between tree and earth, coaxing tiny seedlings to take root and humming simple melodies that call squirrels down from trees to nibble nuts from her palm, and she feels at home.

After a few moments, Siril looks up from her work, fingers still buried in the soil, with a sheepish smile. “It is nothing so grand as what you learn,” she says, the words apologetic but the tone beneath edged with a preemptive defensiveness, “but it is where I feel most at peace.”

“Among living things,” says Laerwen, and she kneels beside Siril in the dirt. “Among the forest that shelters us.” She hums a few notes herself, a song she remembers her mother teaching her long ago. “It is a nobler art by far, I think,” she says, “and I am glad you have shown me where your heart lies.” Overtaken by some impulse, she reaches out and covers one of Siril’s hands with her own, relishing in the incomparable softness of well-tended soil beneath her fingers. “I promise I will not endanger it.”

Siril looks up, her face alight with surprised gratitude. “No,” she says, tone soft with disbelief. “I trust that you will not.”


	5. Part I, Chapter 4

The next time they meet, Laerwen brings her favorite book with her.

She cannot explain it, this strange desperate urge, but it nags at her: after seeing Siril’s garden, she cannot help but feel somehow unworthy. Why has Siril, who has such skill and takes such pleasure in helping things live and grow, taken such an interest in Laerwen, when all she has seen is Laerwen’s ability to kill?

But she is more than that, she must be, and after their previous meeting she cannot escape the yearning to prove it: that she is more than just a fighter, that she too loves things that grow and live – and that she loves to create as well as destroy. That there is more in her than she appears.

Why this urge? She cannot explain it, except that Siril is so powerful in her gentleness – that her quiet softness seems to hide a great strength. That she might share some of that spirit with Laerwen is a great honor – one of which Laerwen must prove herself worthy. It is as though Siril’s very being hides a mystery, one that she is revealing to Laerwen piece by piece – and Laerwen cannot bear to have her regret what she shares.

So she brings a book of poetry. Simple poems, a love letter written to the earth and the stars and the forest. She has loved them since she was a child, and they have always felt like a secret that belongs to her alone, even though she knows many others have read the book. But it feels right that Siril should be the one to share this secret with her.

Siril’s face falls when Laerwen first offers her the book, though, and Laerwen’s heart sinks along with it. “I would be glad to share with you what you love, your h – Laerwen.” She still struggles sometimes to use Laerwen’s name rather than her title, especially when she is nervous. “But I am no reader. I can read and cipher well enough to share information, but I fear that I would not understand the artistry in the words. And” – She shuts down and looks away, but Laerwen knows well enough what she would have said: that she does not want to draw more attention to the difference in their upbringings.

It is true enough. Both of Laerwen’s parents placed emphasis on her learning to read and write, but she knows it is much more in her father’s tradition than her mother’s. The Silvan elves are storytellers rather than writers; many of them have learned the Tengwar script in a concession to their Sindarin royals, but theirs are the traditions that matter in the Woodland Realm, not the few scraps of Sindarin heritage that Oropher and Thranduil did not cast aside. Why should Siril be expected to find art in the written word?

But before Laerwen can let herself be disappointed, she squares her shoulders. “Then I will read them to you,” she says. “You will like it, I think. It is not story the way you are used to hearing it told; it does not change constantly, for the order of the words is preserved with each recitation – but still it means something different to everyone who hears it.”

She turns on Siril a pleading look that has nearly always gotten her her way, and smiles in triumph at Siril’s nod of acquiescence.

And when the third poem she reads brings Siril to joyful tears, Laerwen feels she has gifted a great treasure – and been gifted a greater one in return.

* * *

Before long they are meeting nearly every day, either in the clearing where Laerwen practices or in Siril’s private garden. Sometimes they stay there, or sometimes they show one another secret places they know of in the forest. Laerwen brings more books, after they have finished the first, and introduces Siril to stories she has never heard. Some days Siril brings her flute, and Laerwen sings, and they learn to make music together.

And through it all, Siril watches herself grow more and more comfortable with Laerwen – more comfortable than she ought to be, for all that she reminds herself that she must be on her guard, aware, careful. But there is something about the way Laerwen is, the way she laughs and the way she listens, that makes Siril unafraid to be free with her.

Every day, though, Laerwen insists on going through her forms at least once, so that when she tells her parents where she has gone, she will not be truly dishonest.

“Why not tell them?” says Siril, surprised into bluntness. “Do you fear they would stop you?”

“No,” says Laerwen – too quickly, but then she stops and seems to consider. “Well . . . no, I do not. But they would be too interested, perhaps. May I” – A flush creeps onto her cheeks. “May I be honest with you, Siril?”

“I thought we always were,” says Siril, still cautious. Something flutters in her belly at Laerwen’s sudden change of tone.

“Yes, it is only” – Laerwen’s flush deepens. “I love my family, and I know they love me, but I feel that sometimes all I do is in service to the realm. I know they value me as a daughter, as a granddaughter, but with all their expectations and lessons – and my grandfather’s meaningful looks – I feel sometimes as though I am merely being shaped into a perfect weapon. I know that is the duty that accompanies my privileges, but – when I come here, I am free of being Thranduiliel for a short time each day. As though with you I may be merely Laerwen – the self that I truly am.” She gives a slightly breathless laugh and ducks her head.

The air has changed between them; the mood grows heavier with the admission of that quiet trust that has been blooming between them for some time now. And now that Laerwen has spoken first, Siril feels the block of reluctance soften within her, and at last she dares to speak as well.

“I am glad you are Laerwen with me,” she confesses. “I do not forget that you have status and responsibilities beyond my own – for how could I possibly forget?” Her own confession trembles on her lips, but she cannot bring herself to speak it just yet. “I hope you at least may find solace in the knowledge that all your training and expectations serve a purpose. Do you enjoy being in service to something greater than yourself?”

Laerwen startles, then relaxes – then laughs. “Do you know, no one has ever asked me that before,” she murmurs. “I cannot resent it, if that is what you mean. It was a tale woven into all the stories I heard as a child, all my lessons and all my duties: how much my family owes to those we serve, how much we are given every day we are allowed to be here. And I have always understood it, but – if you would have the truth of me, Siril, it is meeting you that has given me the true understanding of what this kingdom is worth.”

Siril swallows at the words. No one has ever esteemed her so highly before; she does not know what to do with this gift she has been given – except to give something back in return, as best she can.

“And it is in meeting you that I have understood the importance of what you do,” she says. “I have ever been aware of your presence here – there are similar expectations in my family: of perfection, of success, of ambition. I have never aspired to such things for myself, and I have enough siblings to take up my parents’ attention; my mother has long given up attempting to mold me to fit the life she has chosen. I need not hide my true nature, for they do not look for it. But if they knew that I had made your acquaintance, that would change. They would see only the princess, and not the part of you that is” – She stops short; the word _mine_ still hovers behind her lips – but no, that is more than she may dare to claim. “That you share with me,” she finishes, feeling foolish.

But Laerwen shows no sign of having caught her slip. “I too am thankful,” she says. “Thankful that you do not ask me to be more than the self I keep for myself; thankful that you do not seek to use me for your family’s advantage. But I am sorry that it is thus for you.” She looks at Siril for a long moment, and for all their lives are so different, Siril swears she sees understanding in Laerwen’s eyes. “Is that why you came? Even before I knew you were there?”

They have not spoken of it, not once in all the time they have been coming here – but it is right, somehow, that it should come up now. “It is why I am so rarely home, if that is what you ask,” she says. “And why – I cannot tell you why I stayed, when I first saw you.”

“I can,” says Laerwen, and she reaches out and rests one hand over Siril’s. “It is because some part of you decided that you no longer wished to be alone.”

Siril’s breath catches in her throat. Laerwen’s hand is slim and light, but hard with well-earned calluses, and Siril’s skin seems to burn where it touches. But she swallows hard and holds her voice steady when she answers: “And that same part must have seen that you were the companion I had been seeking.”

Laerwen smiles – slow and a touch sad, but beaming and brilliant. “If that is so,” she says, “then I am more fortunate than mere words can express.”

They sit there for a few moments in silence, their hands still touching. Siril never used to blush easily, not before Laerwen burst into her life, but she feels her cheeks burning again, and she wonders if there is any way Laerwen can know what is growing inside her, of the blossom slowly opening its petals to glorious fullness, terrifying in its fragile budding.

And then, in a burst of motion, Laerwen is on her feet.

“There is too much inside me,” she says breathlessly, “to stay still any longer.” And before Siril can begin to parse her words, she draws her sword and begins to move.

The forms are as beautiful as ever, but there is something different to them, something wilder – as though something within Laerwen has escaped her controlled composure. She loses none of her grace, but the sequence is like nothing Siril has ever seen. Laerwen moves in a dance dictated by her own emotion, the blade merely an extension of her limb –

“Are you sure you do not wish to try yourself?” Laerwen’s voice is so abrupt that Siril almost does not notice she has stopped. “You are dancing with me again.”

Siril shakes her head, and Laerwen speaks before she can. “I know,” she says softly. “You are not a fighter; you prefer preserving life to taking it, even in play.” Her voice is hushed, almost in awe, and Siril shivers.

Laerwen gazes at her for another long moment, and then sheathes her blade in a decisive motion and takes Siril’s hand to pull her up. “Will you show me? How it feels, to watch?”

Siril hesitates. It is not new, the way Laerwen’s gaze is fixed on her, but – no one else has ever looked at her with such intensity before. Again the bloom inside of her shudders, blossoms, opens – and what it might mean is dangerous enough. Having those _eyes_ on her is dangerous enough – how can she encourage it, how can she show off thus? For all that Laerwen makes it so easy to forget, this is the princess. The daughter of the crown prince! Too much attention from her – to take these thoughts too far – Siril ought not allow it.

But Laerwen smiles hopefully, folding to a seated position as though she knows she has won, and before Siril knows it she is on her feet.

The motion comes as easily to her as if she has been training for as long as Laerwen – though she is wise enough to know it would be entirely different with a sword in her hand. But the long hours of watching have built a sense of the motion into Siril’s body, and she moves from one posture to another, making it the dance it appears, with no desire to fight, no motion to kill –

In a movement too fast to follow Laerwen is on her feet again; her blade flashes in her hand, and Siril startles, falling out of the dance and into her best approximation of a defensive posture –

“No,” says Laerwen breathlessly, “no, I am sorry for disturbing you, but please continue.”

Siril looks at the sunlight gleaming off her sword, but Laerwen follows her eyes and shakes her head. “I will not hurt you,” she says, “look into my eyes and know I tell the truth.”

Siril hesitates. She can still hardly dare to form the thought, but she knows that the blade in Laerwen’s hand is the least danger about her right now. Knows that if she looks into Laerwen’s eyes right now, she risks losing more than her life.

But even as her instincts scream warning, Siril knows she has no choice – and it is not because she dare not defy her princess.

Like a magnet to iron her eyes are drawn, and she loses her breath at the sight of the grey eyes, usually so piercing, now gleaming with excitement and delight. “Trust me,” Laerwen coaxes, and Siril does.

Without a word she resumes the posture, and this time Laerwen dances with her; the blade in her hand follows the motions, but though it passes closer than breath to Siril’s body more than once, she does not fear it. The blade is a part of Laerwen, and as it is a part of her, Siril has nothing to fear from it.

It is the whole of her she fears, for as they dance, something inside of her is falling, falling, and she knows instinctively that whatever wound she takes in this combat will never heal.

And that night after they have parted, Siril lies awake, hot-cheeked and breathless, playing the day again and again in her mind, and knows she is in deep trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Feelings are the WORST, aren't they?


	6. Part I, Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say in advance that I'm sorry.

Laerwen floats through the rest of her day after they part, hardly noticing the ground beneath her feet. At last, she thinks, some wall between them is fallen, some barrier preventing them from closeness. At long last – but no, that cannot be right. It feels it has taken her years to reach this point, to finally open up her heart and coax Siril into opening hers as well, but in truth it has only been a few months, scarcely a season.

And yet perhaps it has been years: years of waiting for such a chance, such a friend. For in this short time, Siril has already become the dearest friend Laerwen has ever had. And somehow, to her great fortune, it seems Siril esteems her in such a way as well. Something has changed between them, and it brings Laerwen nothing so much as elation.

And surely Siril feels the same way?

The next day Laerwen goes to the clearing without her sword. Why would she pretend she has come to do anything other than meet Siril, after all this? They are friends – true friends – and why should Laerwen need any kind of excuse for that?

But Siril does not come.

Laerwen sits for an hour, two hours – waiting and listening carefully for that telltale rustle in the foliage – and nothing. She peeks around in the nearby trees and thickets, wondering at first if Siril is hiding or attempting to surprise her with some new game; she tries calling out, hoping to coax her out of hiding – but there is no response, no sound, no change in the song to indicate her presence.

It can only be that, for whatever reason, she did not come.

All the next three days, Laerwen returns to the clearing, tries the same tricks. And every day, Siril is not there.

Laerwen’s mood veers rapidly back and forth between discouraged frustration and almost frantic worry – has something become of Siril that called her away? Has she been hurt, or has something gone wrong in her family? Why else would she not come?

After the third day, Laerwen is ready to begin checking all the other places they have gone together – she will see if Siril is in her garden, or if the garden has at least been tended; perhaps that will give her a clue if some catastrophe has befallen her friend – but on the fourth day, Siril is there.

At first, Laerwen can feel nothing beyond the relief that rushes like blood in her ears and nearly makes her lightheaded – but today Siril is different than she has been in the past. She offers no explanation for her absence, which irks Laerwen more than it ought. Perhaps she is more hurt than angry – that Siril does not seem to care that she was away; that she does not seem to think Laerwen would have worried for her – but she swallows down her irritation and smiles in hopeful greeting.

But Siril’s smile in return is too tentative, awkward. Closed-off, like she was at the beginning – as though they had no shared moment of revelation, no perfectly-synchronized dance!

As though Laerwen has been wrong all along about their newfound closeness.

She tries hard to ignore it, forces extra friendliness in the hopes that she will eventually feel what she feigns. But Siril does not respond, and Laerwen feels she is watering sand in the hopes something will grow – pouring all her enthusiasm out into barren ground.

They speak for only a short time, and when they part, Laerwen feels – for some reason she cannot explain – like weeping.

* * *

It goes on like this for two weeks.

Laerwen is not accustomed to feeling time so acutely. When she was a child, certainly – then she was changing rapidly; every hour brought something new, and there was always more to learn. She still feels that way, sometimes, but at eighty years old she is grown, if yet young, and every year a smaller and smaller portion of her life. She might strive to live each moment as it comes, but it is easy for weeks, even months, to slip by unnoticed.

Not so now.

Since she met Siril, the time has been long and short at the same time – every day they spent together seemed to go on forever, and yet now she looks back and cannot believe only a year has passed, for it feels she has known Siril all her life.

But now, burdened with the uncertainty of whether she will see her new friend again, whether they may even still be called friends – every minute passes in dull slowness.

She has tried to rationalize it, has tried, even, to ask Siril if something has happened to her, but her friend gives only short noncommittal answers and looks distractedly about – when she deigns to appear at all.

It is regrettable, but perhaps not surprising, that Laerwen loses her temper.

For as the days go by, her stores of energy dwindle. Siril has not reverted to using her title, but in every other way her greetings remind Laerwen of the way her classmates treat her outside of lessons: brief, unrevealing, all traces of laughter and camaraderie hidden behind some dividing wall. Every jest Laerwen tries meets with the same closed-mouth smile, a portrait-polite curve of the lips rather than the abandoned laughter that has always put Laerwen in mind of petals opening. And when Laerwen tries to ask, tries to mask her own disquiet and gently probe as to what might be amiss, Siril’s lashes feather as veils over her cheekbones, and she will not meet Laerwen’s eyes.

Laerwen has tried and tried, but she has only so much energy to give.

The sharp pricks of hurt at each new rejection dull into the sandpaper scrape of disappointment – but the many irritations take their toll, and she can allow herself to be wounded only so many times before feeling the urge to strike back. And so it is that when she finally drags herself out after two weeks of disappointed hope, she is seething before she even arrives.

She almost hopes Siril will not be there when she arrives, so that she might have a reason for anger – true anger, rather than this heavy curdled sensation of frustrated longing for a closeness that she cannot articulate. But even that, it seems, is not to be simple. Siril is there when she arrives, but already twitching, looking about – wondering, perhaps, if Laerwen will not be there, so she might leave? Wondering how long politeness will dictate she must stay today before she may at last free herself from this duty?

But as ever when Laerwen sees her there is the automatic leap of her heart – the instinctive flood of warmth at the sight of her friend, the expectation – not yet quelled – of delight to be had in her company.

And as ever, when Siril catches sight of Laerwen, her face closes up: lips pressing tight together into that false smile, eyes lowering, dimpled cheeks going smooth and still as a pond on a windless day – and the flush of warmth in Laerwen’s heart boils into steam.

She keeps her temper for a few moments. Enough time for them to exchange the inane greetings that have become so common – like the conversation they shared at the beginning of their friendship, so bitter now because Laerwen has learned how sweet it can be. Enough time to make some casual conversation about Laerwen’s lessons, about the state of Siril’s garden. Enough time for Siril to make some excuse for why she cannot stay.

“I have a small project that needs finishing, something for a sibling,” she says – apologetic, as if she would not be welcome to bring it here and work on it quietly while Laerwen practiced; as if Laerwen would not willingly keep her company while she did so. As if – as if –

“Of course,” Laerwen says. Her lips go numb, her mouth detached from the rest of her, and she can only watch in horror as she speaks. “I suppose I will see you tomorrow, then, if you think you can bring yourself to return.”

The words hang in the air, practically visible to her eyes, and she startles at the coldness in her own tone. Regret seeps in immediately, but Siril turns back to face her with a whiplike motion, her tongue lashing out faster than any sword. “Is that a command, your Highness?” she says.

Later Laerwen will reflect that her voice seems fearful, but in that moment her anger flares up again; her heart beats louder in her ears than sense, and she is responding before she can stop herself. “If it were, would you deign to obey?”

As soon as the words are out, the world rushes back in around her, clear and sharp, and her mouth is open to apologize – but Siril is already gone.


	7. Part I, Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still fanfic and I'll do an outsider POV if I want to!

Laerwen is sulking.

But no, that is not the right word: this withdrawal is not like those Cuindis remembers from when she was still a child in truth, angry about not being given her way. The few words Laerwen has let slip – at table, after lessons – and the particular flavor of the quiet emanating from her chambers are not right for that. Less sullen, more sad.

It is such a break from the secret smiles and airy gait that have graced her features so often of late that Cuindis believes she knows exactly what it is – and she is not certain whether to rejoice or to fear it.

She taps at her daughter’s door: three gentle raps of a single knuckle, and then waits. Laerwen will know it is she, and will decide whether to allow her entry.

There is a long moment of silence, and then Laerwen says, “Nana?”

Cuindis’s heart aches at being addressed with the pet name Laerwen has not used in decades. “Yes,” is all she says in answer.

Another long pause, and then, “Come in.”

Laerwen is not in the larger receiving chamber, so Cuindis moves through it to open the door at the far end that leads to the smaller cozier space of her daughter’s bedroom. Laerwen is there, sitting on her pillow and leaning against the wall where it rounds in a corner, right up against her bed.

“What is wrong, my daughter?” asks Cuindis.

Laerwen sighs. “I have not been subtle, have I?”

Even now there is an edge of the perfectionism that has driven her so ferociously all the years of her young life; Cuindis finds a small smile. “I do not need your keen perception to see that you are troubled, dear one.”

A matching smile surfaces on Laerwen’s face, and then sinks again. “It is my own fault,” she says quietly. “I know that, at least, even if I do not know how to mend it.”

“Very little is unmendable, I have come to realize,” Cuindis responds, coming a few steps closer and closing the door behind her. She does not go to sit beside Laerwen, not yet – she will wait to see if Laerwen’s words grant her the space to approach. “Sometimes we just need the guidance of one elder and – I flatter myself – a bit wiser to show us the way.”

“I would be glad of your guidance.” Laerwen swallows, and her eyes swing down to fix on her knees. She keeps them there as she begins to speak. “But ere I request it, I must make a confession. I have not been entirely honest with you, these last months.”

Cuindis keeps her face neutral, tries not to betray her lack of surprise – or her burning curiosity. She merely hums and nods at her daughter to continue.

“I have gone off often to practice,” Laerwen confesses, “and while I have done so, it is not all I have done. It happens that another also regularly frequents my preferred practice space, and we began speaking, and then meeting more often.”

Cuindis presses her lips together so she will not ask. She remembers well her own youth – remembers that had her parents pressed, she would have told as little as she could. That Laerwen will speak to her at all is precious; she must merely wait to hear what she will be given.

When Laerwen speaks again, the words are slow but inexorable, as though every word takes effort and yet will not be stopped. “She would watch me practice, and then she showed me her garden, and I read her some of my favorite poems,” she says. “She became a dear friend – if _friend_ I may still name her.” 

She falls silent for a moment, her lips tightening, and Cuindis dares to speak. “Why do you doubt?” she says carefully.

“I know not why,” Laerwen says, “but she became scarce suddenly. And then I” – She looks down. “I offended her deeply, and I know why, but not how to make amends – or if I even ought to try. Perhaps she would rather I did not.”

“How did you offend her?” asks Cuindis gently. “Let us begin there.”

Laerwen’s hands twist before her, and when she speaks, the words come in a rush. “I spoke harshly to her, as good as rebuked her for her absence, and when she asked if I commanded her to attend me, I asked if that would encourage her to do so.” She winces at herself, but then her chin snaps up at last. “Surely I have erred beyond repair,” she says, but Cuindis finds her eyes and sees more than shame in them – sees also her desperate hope, and – and something _more_. “Surely she will never forgive me.”

Cuindis hesitates before speaking, because she can see the emotion that lurks in her daughter’s face: the headstrong pride that she sees so often in Thranduil, that attracts both her admiration and her ire, the quickness to take offense. Laerwen wants to be told that it is not beyond repair, and her desire to make things right is true – but Cuindis cannot begin with accusation. It would be too easy now to strike her pride and her heart together, and frighten her into a sulk from which she might never return.

She does not think on it often, so many years later, but Cuindis herself was young and in love once, and she recognizes the signs of it in the words Laerwen does not say – the feelings that perhaps even she does not understand are there, that confirm Cuindis’s own guess as to what has been ailing her for all this time. She must tread carefully here.

Instead of speaking, then, she merely looks – brushes aside the memory of Laerwen’s too-recent childhood and takes in what she sees. Her daughter’s face is all graceful curves to striking angles: the slanted cheekbones, the strong line of the nose, the almost metallic color of her eyes. She will be very handsome one day – indeed, already she is, but her features still await the tempering of dignity and wisdom that come with experience and age.

Indeed, seeing Laerwen thus, it is not difficult to remember her own youthful love affair. Laerwen looks just like her father in this moment, the same defiant pride and stubbornness—and the same determination, in the end, to do what is right.

It is no wonder she has found one to share her life, even if she has yet to realize it herself.

At last Cuindis comes forward, right up to the edge of the bed. “May I sit?”

Laerwen nods, drawing her knees up to her chest and hugging herself tighter into the corner. She looks even younger in this posture, like the child Cuindis must constantly remind herself she is not.

“Your father and your grandfather have done their best to teach you well,” she murmurs, half to herself. “They have taught you the dignity and pride of your line, how to wield the keen insight that is your gift, and how to recognize injustice in others and in yourself. And if it must fall to me to teach you humility, then so it must be.”

Laerwen tenses, her shoulders drawing her arms taut against her legs – but then she stops, draws in a long, deep breath. Relaxes. “Naneth?” she says, in question.

“You know that one day – long, long to come, Valar willing – you may ascend to the throne here.” Laerwen nods, and Cuindis speaks carefully, weighing each word before letting it fall, so she will not break this precious moment – when Laerwen is willing to listen. “And you know that your elders have taught you much – and will continue to teach you – in preparation for that day, long though it may be in coming.”

“And I am grateful,” Laerwen slips in, in the space of the next indrawn breath, and her hand comes to rest on Cuindis’s for just a moment.

“You are,” says Cuindis, “and that means much. But it is not only the responsibilities that you have learned, but the privileges of royalty—perhaps without noticing it.”

“I know my privileges!” Laerwen protests. “If Adar and Adahir have not been able to teach me what they mean, I have always had you to remind me of those I serve, who do not have what I do, who cannot rely on the treatment I receive” –

She speaks as one who has learned her lessons but does not always know why she must take them to heart, and Cuindis’s heart aches with simultaneous pride and regret at how well they have trained their daughter – even as she finds herself grateful that Laerwen now has cause to learn her lessons in truth. “You are learning,” she cuts her daughter off, “and I can see you are learning well. But that is not what I mean.” She is, perhaps, uniquely positioned to tell this tale – as one who once experienced such a thing herself. “You have power over people beyond that which you understand. When you command them to do something, they are bound – or feel bound – to do it. It may be that your friend’s offense comes not only from the fear that you will command her to attend you, but from the thought that you might have believed yourself already entitled to her company, believed her already at your service.”

Laerwen’s hand creeps up to cover her mouth. “But I did not mean” – Her words are muffled around her fingers; stricken, she lowers her hand again. “But I suppose that does not matter. She cannot know that.”

Her fists clench around her knees, knuckles going white. “How do I make it right again, Naneth? I would have her companionship again – but only if she chooses it freely. Forced, it would be worth nothing at all.”

“To that, I know not the answer.” This is something Laerwen will need to do on her own, after all. “But the understanding – that, I think, is the beginning.”

“It is.” Laerwen places her hand on Cuindis’s again, another light, swift touch. “I will make it up to her, if I can.” She lifts her chin, her eyes lighting with determination. “Thank you, with all my heart, for helping me to understand.”

“Whenever you need my aid,” Cuindis promises, “I will be here.”

Laerwen has gone quiet again, but not as she was before: this is the quiet of anticipation, of thought. Already she has set herself to the task of setting things right, and Cuindis slips out of the room without further speech – but inside, she is bracing herself. It is not Laerwen’s distress that upsets her, but what it means – what lies beneath it.

There is no question that Laerwen will be successful; from nothing more than the stories she has heard, Cuindis has no doubt that this mysterious friend must feel the same terrifying depth of new love. And this means that everything is about to change, in one way or another.

Cuindis has not yet had to imagine her child’s wedding – but now she must steel herself to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes when things are hard, you just have to talk to mom, you know?


	8. Part I, Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of notes before this chapter...
> 
> First, this story is basically compliant with the fanon surrounding Tolkien's "Laws and Customs of the Eldar" essay: basically, that because sex is marriage and elves only marry one person in their lives, they are biologically and fundamentally demisexual. This will be important.
> 
> Second, if you just want to listen to ABBA's [Andante Andante](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vANsx3pL8mo) on repeat while reading through this chapter and the next few... that's fair and reasonable and pretty much what I did while writing them.

Laerwen decides to start small.

Nothing will suffice but a full apology, of course, and a promise to be ever at Siril’s service – but first she must convince Siril that she is willing to give one, and that she will ask for nothing in return.

She allows a few days to pass – agonizing as the waiting is. She throws herself into her lessons and her regular tasks. Of late the king has given her slightly more responsibility than the simple shadowing that she always performed in her youthful days (conversations with cooks and guards, a youthful face to serve as welcome to diplomatic guests). Now she is sent to discuss trade with the leaders of various guilds and carry their messages back to Bellassor, her mother’s diplomatic advisor – so that she might learn about the economy of their kingdom and the state of their trade with other realms; or she stops in regularly to discuss with Alugail the state of the various hospitals and what further aid they might need from the royal treasury. Her own responsibilities extend no further than carrying the messages, but she knows what she is meant to learn from all this, and usually it is enough to occupy her.

But of late, as though to do penance for her shirking – mentally, if not physically – she has taken to volunteering for extra tasks: running errands and messages within the palace; spending extra hours at lessons. Mostly it is to keep herself busy, so that her thoughts cannot stray too far into guilt and regret and fear. She knows she must give Siril time before she pursues again, and so she is determined to do so, even if it causes her near physical pain.

After two days of this, she begins to prepare her gifts.

On one of their earlier visits to Siril’s garden, she showed Laerwen a simple pattern of weaving flowers. One of the few lessons, Laerwen laughed, that her tutors never pursued after her childhood – and thus something she had not done in decades. But there was always something about Siril that made her feel more grounded, more connected – more than just the perfect princess that she knew she was meant to be. The weaving, Siril persuaded her, could be something she learned merely for the joy of creating, rather than for the need to make _something_.

She was right, and the knowledge of that made Laerwen laugh again for pure pleasure.

Now she selects a careful bunch of flowers – leaves of cedar, and tiny blossoms of hawthorn and clover to weave in between – and sets to work.

The braiding is simple, and nothing near the quality of what Siril can produce – but most importantly, Laerwen made it with her own hands using a skill Siril taught her. She hopes it will be read as what it is – an appreciation of all Siril has brought to her life, and a symbol of hope that they might renew their friendship. And hopes more fervently that Siril will be charmed rather than offended by the imperfections.

Late at night, when she has finished, she slips away from the palace.

She would leave it in their clearing, but she fears that Siril’s anger has driven her away from there for good. So she ventures instead – following her preferred path through the treetops – to Siril’s garden.

The soil is fresh and dark, newly tilled. Siril has been here recently, then, and hopefully she will come again. The sight of the plants sleeping for the night, the knowledge that they were tended with such loving fingers, brings a lump to Laerwen’s throat.

With a silent prayer, she leaves the chain of flowers over a low-hanging branch and returns to her home, but she gets little sleep that night.

* * *

The next night, she sets to work on her next gift. She will bring it to the same place, there to see if Siril has retrieved her flower chain.

Most likely, the nature of the first gift will have made the giver clear – but if not, tonight’s will be even more evident. Painstakingly, in her best script, Laerwen copies out Siril’s favorite poem from their book, rolls it into a scroll, and then – just to be certain that there will be no mistake – seals it with the insignia of the royal family.

When she returns to the garden, the flower chain is gone. She can only hope that Siril took it and did not cast it aside in anger.

She leaves the scroll in its place.

* * *

On the third night, a response is waiting for her where she left the other gifts.

_Tomorrow night_, it reads, in the round but careful script of an unpracticed writer. _In our clearing._

Laerwen’s stomach morphs into a writhing ball of snakes; she does her best to hide it, but does not quite succeed. She so admires her father and his self-control, his ability to gaze unblinkingly and leave all others wondering what emotions stir behind the blank shields of his eyes. One day, she hopes, she will manage such a feat herself, but as she has not yet the skill, all she can do is evade: her parents, her teachers, her – well. 

She performs her usual tasks, but her thoughts are not present, and she does not trust herself to take on any extra errands. Three times she is scolded: first by her archery master, for allowing the target to be obscured by her thoughts; then by Alugail for forgetting to ask her father an important question; then by her father himself, who has simply noticed she is walking about in a daze. After that, she does the best she can to avoid contact with any other elves in the process of carrying out her duties.

But she cannot help it! She is a mass of raw, squirming nerves; perhaps she will be forgiven, or at least given a second chance – at what? She does not know, but this friendship has become too precious to her; she cannot bear to have it severed –

She departs before sundown; she can bear it no longer. When she arrives, it is too early, but she waits at a distance, so that Siril will not feel any pressure to appear, or that Laerwen has any expectations for this meeting. And she has not – only hopes.

When finally the gold of the sunset fades from the leaves, Laerwen steps forward.

Siril is waiting back in the shade of the trees, sitting on the long, low-swinging branch that she first showed Laerwen, that they have shared so often. Laerwen wishes to go sit beside her, but she knows not if she will be welcomed, and it is for Siril to approach, if she wishes. She stays out in the moonlight, where she is visible and nonthreatening.

Siril’s head snaps up at her approach; she tenses like a frightened squirrel, and guilt nearly drags Laerwen to her knees right here. Only her determination to be fair keeps her on her feet – she will not have Siril accept her apology only out of sympathy. “Thank you for coming,” she says instead; her voice will not come out as loudly as she would like, but she knows Siril can hear. “I had feared you would not wish to see me again.”

Siril shakes her head slowly, but does not speak, so Laerwen continues. “I spoke to my mother,” she says, “and she helped me see what hurt I have caused in you. I knew I had offended you, but I did not understand what it might mean to you – but I understand now, and I am sorry. I hope she has given me wisdom enough that I will not repeat this error, but I would have you know.” She longs to direct her eyes at her feet, but she keeps them forward instead, gazing into the darkness of the boughs where Siril still sits. Moonlight glances off her dark eyes, but Laerwen cannot read the expression in them. “I lashed out only in anger, and I never meant to demand or to command your attention.” It is painful to say it aloud, but she must not shrink from her own failings. “I say this not to excuse myself, but to promise you that I do not see your companionship as a right, or even a privilege to be demanded.”

The next part is the worst to say, but she has promised herself – and more urgently, she must promise Siril. “If you do not wish to trust me with it any longer,” the words nearly stick in her throat, “I understand, and I will not contact you again unless you ask it of me. For I would have your company only if it is freely given. And I would also tell you that I – I may be the daughter of the prince, but,” her voice sinks to a whisper, “I do not think myself in any way above you.”

She did not mean to do this, but she finds herself moving; her hand rises to remove the circlet from her hair, easing it free of the braids. She takes a deep breath and tosses it to land at Siril’s feet – and then, finally, as it seems she has been longing to do for some time, she lowers herself to her knees.

“_Hiril nin_,” she says, her voice little more than a breath, “_Dannan am ochin nin ob hen_.”

She fixes her eyes on the ground, but after a moment she hears the rustling of leaves and looks up to see that Siril is moving.

She comes forward: one slow step, then another, and then she bends. A ray of moonlight reflects silver off the circlet as she picks it up, whirls it once between her hands. Her expression is wonder, satisfaction – and a touch of fear?

Laerwen wonders if Siril will toss the circlet into the forest, and fights the urge to rise to her feet. If that is what will be, then it will, and she will make what amends she must to her father and grandfather. Siril’s forgiveness is worth more than that right now.

But Siril does not throw the circlet away. She comes forward another step, then another, until she is close enough that Laerwen might reach out and touch her. She does not – she will do nothing until Siril has spoken her piece.

But still, Siril says nothing.

She reaches out, circlet in hands, to settle it back onto Laerwen’s head. The balance is imperfect without the braids woven in; it tilts, unsteady, but neither of them pays it any mind. Laerwen finds herself unable to feel anything but the brush of Siril’s hands against her hair, a tingle that travels from her scalp down her back. Her knees shake beneath her as one of Siril’s hands moves to rest beneath her chin.

It takes all Laerwen’s effort to keep her head steady; she feels she will melt into nothing but a rapid-beating heart, but her eyes flick up unbidden to meet Siril’s own: dark, moon-gleaming. The hand under Laerwen’s chin tilts her head up to follow her gaze, and Siril bends still further, a willow-bough drawn to the earth, and kisses Laerwen on the mouth.

_Oh._

Laerwen trembles. The kiss is light, just the slightest brush of lips, but it sweeps through her like the stiff wind of late autumn, and she is a leaf barely clinging to a branch. She did not know – but _oh_.

Siril withdraws, but Laerwen’s lips tingle as though she has not moved away; she sways on her knees, reaching out, and Siril catches her hands.

Her fingers are smooth as Laerwen’s are not, the calluses softer not from wielding weapons but from the loving work in soil, flowers and leaves. The touch _zings_ through Laerwen’s blood, and unbidden she thinks of how those hands would feel on the rest of her body, in her hair – Her face heats, and she wonders if she has forgotten how to breathe.

She knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that a kiss could be more than a mere formal or affectionate gesture, but never has she _felt_ a kiss like this before; her whole body hums with it; her blood seems to glow with heat – all radiating from where Siril’s lips touched hers. This is – this is – _oh_.

“Did you feel that?” she whispers, unable to raise her voice – and her hands clutch at Siril’s in the sudden terror that she is wrong, that she is alone in this. “That – that” –

She does not have the words, but Siril nods. “I did,” she says solemnly. “I have since the first time you smiled at me.”

Laerwen’s insides turn to slush, soft and frozen at the same time; she cannot bring herself to move. “Oh,” is all she can whisper.

Siril tugs lightly on her hands, drawing her to her feet. “I am touched by your humility,” she says softly. “But know that it was not only your thoughtless words that drove me so long away, but also—my fear. Of my own feelings.”

“And now you are not afraid?” Laerwen’s mind is spinning, somewhere, rapidly reorienting all that she thought she knew in light of this – of what she now knows – but that is all happening somewhere else, somewhere back behind the immediacy, the enormity of this moment: of the softness of Siril’s hands in hers, the way the night seems to expand around them, wide and filled with the promise of – of –

“Terrified,” says Siril, and tilts her head up, waiting for Laerwen to kiss her again.

And what can Laerwen do but oblige?

* * *

They stay out long that night, sharing little more than a few whispered words and shy kisses – but they sit on their favorite log with hands clasped and thighs brushing, and the press of Siril’s leg awakens Laerwen’s entire body to thoughts she has never before considered – feelings she has never known –

She knows enough to understand what this means, and her head nearly reels with the terror of it. If this is what Siril came to know, weeks ago, no wonder she fled from it. One moment is all it took for the whole world to reorient itself in Laerwen’s mind, and now piece after piece falls into place in its new pattern, with a speed that terrifies her. It is like waking from true-sleep: the world never feels quite the same as it was before she left it, and she must relearn herself and her surroundings in the wake of this change.

Only this is much more serious – much more _final _– than falling asleep.

Laerwen squeezes gently at Siril’s hand – only enough to change the pressure, to reawaken her own hand to the sensation of its warmth, the fingers interlaced with hers. A new part of her – an irrevocable part, a part to whom her body and soul are awakening, even now. Her secret friend no longer – now something more, something deeper.

A thumb strokes lightly over the back of Laerwen’s hand, and Laerwen shivers to her bones at the feel of it. Siril gives a laugh soft as the moonlight itself. “I can practically hear your busy thoughts from here,” she says.

Laerwen blushes again. “How do you know me better already than so many who have known me all my life?”

Siril strokes her cheek, and Laerwen melts into the touch. “They are fools then, not to hold you dearly enough to learn,” she murmurs. “But do not think so much now.” Something in her seems to have calmed with her wordless declaration; now she sits beside Laerwen and radiates a steadying peace. “There will be much to say, yes, but we have time enough to say it. Now, be here with me.”

“I am.” Laerwen reaches out in her own turn, daring to lay a hand on Siril’s knee. “And if I could, I would never leave.”

Some part of her quivers to hear herself say those words – but even more stirring is the knowledge that they are true, in the deepest depths of her. But Siril smiles, and whispers, “Then do not.”

* * *

Of course it is not so simple; of course after some time has passed, they must part again. But tonight, before they can go their separate ways, Laerwen pauses.

“As” – She cringes at her folly of only days before, but in the light of Siril’s gaze, even her shame is fleeting. “As I should have asked you the first time, will you meet me here again tomorrow evening?”

Siril smiles back, luminous. “As I should have told you before, nothing but the direst disaster could keep me away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hiril nin, dannan am ochin nin ob hen_ = "My lady, I fall to my knees before you." (Essentially the same as the prologue, but not quite at "my love" territory yet. YET.)


	9. Part I, Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little interlude!

One thing Laerwen has not yet practiced to perfection is deception.

Perhaps one day she will learn the skills Thranduil had before Cuindis even met him – in hiding his true feelings behind an emotionless mask, feigning indifference to the world around him even when anger or joy threatens to overflow in his heart. It has served him well, Cuindis cannot deny it – but some part of her wishes her daughter never need learn it for herself.

She is selfish to think it, but it is such a pleasure to look on her daughter’s face and know immediately that she has been successful in her endeavors to win back her friend – indeed, more than successful. Her joy shines through everywhere: in the lightness of her step, the stain of her cheeks, the foolish smile plastered to her face. Cuindis catches her eye and raises her eyebrows just once, but even then Laerwen’s face does not lose its helpless grin; she just covers her mouth with a hand and ducks away, her eyes sparkling.

Cuindis just shakes her head, wondering if all the palace can tell that the princess is in love.

Thranduil can tell, though he lacks her knowledge of the situation. He gusts into their chambers late in the evening, throws himself onto their bed, and raises an eyebrow at her. “So?” he says.

She laughs. He must have fared well in his bout with his father tonight; he fairly crackles with energy, like a summer storm. “So what?”

He arches his back and flings himself to his feet again, his grey eyes gleaming. “So,” he says again, taking one slow step towards her, like a wildcat preparing to pounce. “You know something I do not.”

“And this is unusual how?” she says, arch – but laughter bubbles close beneath the surface, and she knows he can tell. She loves it when he is this way, setting aside the dignity of his office and the grief of his past for the playfulness that better suits his spirit. It is how he won her people’s hearts – and her own.

He takes another step, and she retreats, matching his pace as he begins to stalk her in a slow circle around their rooms. “You spoke to Laerwen,” he says.

Cuindis knows the smile spreading across her face is the same as her daughter’s. “I did.” The knowledge of Laerwen’s giddy young love, and the intent in Thranduil’s eyes, cannot but remind her of her own. Even if just for this moment, she feels her daughter’s age again, free of the care of a kingdom and the menace that has begun to whisper in on the wind – and she is no princess, but only a maid in love.

But allowing her mind to wander is dangerous with Thranduil in this mood, and she is too slow to evade him when he pounces. She squeals and darts back, but his hands catch her around the waist, and she does not even feel him toss her until she is weightless in the air, landing on her back on the bed. It bounces once beneath her weight, and then again under his when he lands over her, crouched on all fours. Again he is a wildcat above his prey, but now she makes no move to flee.

“Did she tell you what has her behaving so oddly?”

How singleminded he is, even in the midst of distraction! She could giggle, but instead she tilts her chin up and allows a taunting smile to slip onto her face. “I know not if I ought to tell you,” she says haughtily. “I suspect your intentions are impure.”

“Impure?” He gives her the most overwrought look of feigned shock she has ever seen, and it takes all her effort not to laugh. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I ask only out of concern for our daughter” –

“Liar.” Now she does laugh. “You ask out of your own burning curiosity.”

He grins, the loose, easy smile that he – for all his playfulness – only shares with her. “Cannot both be true?”

“Perhaps.” She reaches up to shove his chest, rolling him over. “But I think you have an idea, even if you claim not to know.”

“Will you confirm it for me if I guess rightly?” He hooks an arm around her neck and tugs her in close. Still she can feel him practically humming, like the wind before a lightning strike.

“Perhaps,” she says again, slow and singsong.

Thranduil winds a finger into one of her braids and slowly tugs loose its fastening, letting the curls spiral free. “Will you give me a prize?”

She pokes his chest. “You are so confident in your victory!”

“She is in love.”

Cuindis sighs. She is not surprised he guessed, but he might have prolonged their game a bit longer. “Perhaps confident with reason,” she allows.

Thranduil smiles – not the promising smile of a lover, now, but the soft pride of a father. “You knew.”

“Before she did, I think.” Cuindis thinks about Laerwen’s blushing face. “But if she did not know before, I venture she does now.” She knows Laerwen’s feelings show up plain on her face, but she cannot resist taunting her husband once more. “And how did you come to discern this?”

He laughs softly and flicks her cheek with another of her braids. “How could I not?” he says. “Her besotted smile looks just like yours.”

And after that there is little talk.


	10. Part I, Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extreme giggly new love in this chapter. You have been warned.
> 
> Also, there is a poem in this chapter that I feel the need to preface beforehand because I don't like it very much-- the thought of trying to write a very specific poem on demand was far too intimidating to try to make it also _good,_ so I wanted to give a little explanation about the poem. I wanted it to be the sort of semi-erotic poem that would be produced by a mingled-tradition people like the wood-elves: nature-focused, with metaphors more along the lines of (my perception of) Silvan traditions, but written in Sindarin, as the Silvans have more of an oral tradition. To that end, it has no regular meter or rhyme scheme, and is meant to feel a little like a translation-- a little foreign to us.
> 
> (Or at least, that's my defense if you read it and think it's really weird.)

Siril slips out as early as she can manage the next night, wanting to reach the clearing before Laerwen can arrive. She bristled at the implication that she might be at Laerwen’s service before, but now she recognizes the hurt that she herself caused, when Laerwen knew not whether to expect her. Tonight, she will be there first, so that Laerwen need not doubt for a second.

It is well she left so early, for it seems Laerwen is driven by the same eagerness, and Siril has only a moment in the clearing before the trees rustle and Laerwen drops out of her favorite, landing on her feet graceful as a wildcat. They stand a short distance apart, and Siril is already blushing, the corners of her mouth curling unstoppably upward, though they have yet to touch or even move closer together.

“Well met,” Laerwen whispers.

“And you.”

The grin on Laerwen’s face is an exact mirror of Siril’s own, and Siril has never felt so foolish in her life – or so absurdly happy. “I do not know what to do next,” she confesses.

A giggle slips from Laerwen, and she covers her mouth with a hand. She too is flushed, her cheeks pinker than Siril has ever seen them, her eyes gleaming. “Nor do I,” she whispers, the words muffled in her palm.

Siril takes a step forward, and Laerwen mimics it, until they are close enough to touch. Carefully, both hardly able to restrain herself and terrified to do any more, Siril reaches out and takes Laerwen’s hand into her own.

As soon as they touch, Laerwen dissolves into a fit of helpless giggles. Her laughter is like a magnet for Siril’s smile; she cannot force it down or away. And although she does not feel mocked, not truly, she cannot resist teasing, “Am I so amusing?”

“No, no, I merely” – Laerwen’s cheeks grow even pinker; she muffles another wave of laughter in the hand not clasped in Siril’s. “I wonder if I have ever been so happy.”

Had Siril any remaining barriers in place, they are gone now; nothing to stop her from falling into Laerwen’ eyes, into the silver stream of her laughter. She reaches up with her free hand to remove Laerwen’s hand from her mouth, and Laerwen’s giggles cut off immediately – her smile softening, eyes half-lidding. The space between them is hardly a breath now, and Siril leans in, in . . .

The kiss is just as intoxicating as last night, as sweet as though she can taste Laerwen’s laughter on her lips. Laerwen’s hands tremble in hers, and then pull free to ghost over Siril’s shoulders. Her touch is light but the prints of her fingers are strangely heavy through Siril’s thin clothing. One of her thumbs nudges bare skin at Siril’s neck, and it feels like the smolder of wood about to burst into flame.

“Oh, good,” Laerwen says, breaking away. Siril can only cock her head, too breathless to speak, but Laerwen smiles and touches a finger to her lower lip, then to Siril’s. “It feels the same as before,” she murmurs.

Siril cannot make fun; she understands what Laerwen means. All the day they were apart, she could not help but wonder: would it be the same when they saw one another again? Was last night merely an enchanting instance that could never be repeated? But seeing Laerwen again, she knows it is not – knows that whatever she has felt blooming between them is real, and only blossoming fuller with every moment they stand here sharing foolish smiles.

“Not the same,” she finally manages to say. Laerwen’s face begins to fall, and Siril regrets her poor choice of words instantly – she never wishes to be the cause of sadness on that face again. “Better.”

“Oh,” Laerwen whispers, and that smile breaks over her face again like a sunrise. “Yes – better.”

* * *

To Laerwen, it seems that the weeks that follow are the longest and yet the shortest in her life.

Long, because every moment spent gazing into Siril’s eyes feels like a dozen eternities, but short because every day they spend together seems to pass quicker than a fish swimming downstream. Long, because every moment in one another’s company is worth years of shared memories – and yet short because she knows it is not enough time, it cannot be! For the ages she might yet live, how can it be that she cannot imagine any time in that future that Siril will not somehow inhabit her heart and her mind?

And yet she is drunk and giddy and unbalanced, like she could tumble at any moment into the dark pools of Siril’s eyes and never climb out – like she is swimming through them all day, even in the times she does not slip away for a meeting. She is terrified and delighted – and yet she is more certain than she dares admit of how she feels, of what she wants.

How can she _know_ the way she does – how, after so short a time? And yet there is only one word for what she feels, for the way she falls: faster and harder every day, every hour. Every look at Siril’s face, every touch of her hand, her lips –! She sees Siril everywhere, in the gently interlacing boughs of young trees, in the sweet song of the wood-thrush. The details of Alugail’s braids remind Laerwen of patterns Siril taught her, and when she reads poetry – ah, every word describes Siril’s face.

She brings a new book with her to one of their meetings. It is a book of love poetry, verses that have never spoken to Laerwen before, but which now make perfect sense. She never cared for it enough to share – but now . . .

Siril’s fingers drift across the word _love_ across the top when Laerwen shows it to her, and she smiles her quiet smile, but does not speak of it. “I would be glad to read them with you,” is all she says.

She did not intend to say it, but no defensive walls can stay up in the warmth of Siril’s gaze. “They made me think of you,” she confesses, barely managing to refrain from adding, _as everything does_.

Siril touches the back of her hand, making Laerwen’s cheeks flare up with heat. “The title reminds me of you in turn.”

It is all they need to say. They settle back against the trunk of a tree, tucked under a low-hanging branch like a shelter hiding them from the world. Siril’s side presses against Laerwen’s, warm and solid, and Laerwen fights the sudden temptation to clamber sideways into her lap. She lets her hand alight on Siril’s thigh instead, and, when there is no protest, releases her tension and lets it settle there. Siril’s skin is warm beneath her trousers, and it takes more effort than in the past to unfurl her scroll and begin to read.

“_Your breath  
is the wind’s breath,  
stirring the forest  
until even the mighty oak trembles  
and showers his acorns_.”

A shiver runs through Laerwen herself at the very thought. The fabric of her breeches whispers as Siril’s hand steals from her own lap and onto Laerwen’s knee, each fingertip a subtle then solid presence on her leg, and a short breath huffs from Laerwen’s lungs before she remembers that she is meant to be reading.

She skims her eyes over the paper, trying to find where she – ah, yes.

_“Your voice  
is the river’s voice:  
meandering, magnificent,  
between the power of just fury  
and sweet mercy,  
cool on my skin  
and soul alike.”_

Siril’s head is on her shoulder now, those wisps of hair tickling her cheeks, heightening every sensation; the closeness between them practically hums. The rest of Siril’s hair, pulled back in its pin, slides across the side of Laerwen’s neck like river water, and then soft, warm breath stirs her own hair. Those lips ghost across her skin, and Laerwen nearly drops her scroll.

“_Your mouth_,” she swallows hard, for that mouth is resting lightly against her neck now, and she never knew her skin was so sensitive, “_your mouth  
is the soft-moss wrapping of night  
warm and_ – ah – _damp of secrets  
waiting to be told_”

and then Siril’s mouth is on hers, lips nudging her own open, warmer and softer than the night could ever hope to be, and there are no secrets here, for the press of their mouths is all Laerwen needs to unlock them.

Her head tilts back; dully she can feel the impact of the tree trunk against her skull, but that means less than nothing. Her free hand rises from Siril’s leg to grope at her shoulder, then slide down her back to her waist, pulling her closer, fusing them tighter together.

Siril pulls back at last to breathe, and Laerwen keeps her arm around her waist, opening her eyes to see that Siril’s gleam with the same dazed joy that tingles through her own body. “I liked,” whispers Siril, “I liked those lines.”

“Those . . . ah, yes.” The poem. Only then does Laerwen realize that her left hand still holds the scroll, that it is little worse for wear – save perhaps a bit rumpled. “Yes, ah” – She has forgotten how to think with Siril’s hand against her neck. “Ah.” She looks down at the scroll to try to find the next lines, and her cheeks warm.

“_Your kiss_  
is starlight  
on the river.”

A long pause, and then she puts the scroll gently to the side, the poem finished. Siril’s lips still hover a breath away from hers, her eyes half-lidded and gleaming. “Is it?” she whispers.

Laerwen does not answer. She raises her newly-empty hand to the small of Siril’s back and pulls her in again.


	11. Part I, Chapter 10

Laerwen skips home that night as giddy as always and more reluctant than ever before. She is glad they have taken to meeting in the evenings, for she cannot imagine returning to chores and lessons in the wake of such a glorious daze – cannot imagine even thinking of anything other than this night.

But when she slips back into the palace, rather than exchanging her usual nods with the guards at the doors to the hall containing her chambers, she finds both of her parents awaiting her there instead, faces serious.

She stops short.

What can it be? She has not been shirking her duties – certainly she has not been performing _well_ at her tasks lately, but she has not left anything out – or, so she thinks. And slipping out at night is not _officially_ forbidden . . .

“Adar?” she ventures, looking from her father to her mother, trying to read their faces, feeling like she has sunk back to the ground after floating for long years. “Naneth?”

“We must speak to you, Laerwen,” says her father seriously.

Her heart pounds in a way so different from the bird-wing flutter Siril elicits from it with every word or hesitant touch. “What is wrong?” she asks. Is it something she has done? Or – or something worse? She remembers now – it has faded into the back of her consciousness in the joy of the last few months, but she remembers the meaningful looks she has seen her father and grandfather exchange, the quiet meetings that she has been told it is not time yet for her to attend. Perhaps something much worse is amiss than her own distraction. Or perhaps her distraction has somehow contributed? “Have I” –

Before she can even form the words in her mind, she sees it: the slightest crack in her mother’s façade. The hint of a twinkle in her eye, the waver at the left corner of her lips. They are –

“You are _teasing_ me!” she cries. “_Naneth_” –

“Cuindis!” scolds her father. “How often have I chided you to learn to bluff?”

Her mother’s face splits into a wide grin, and the knot in Laerwen’s stomach dissolves before fully forming. “I am sorry,” Cuindis says, but she does not seem to regret it. “But I could not let her be so distressed.”

“Bleeding heart,” Thranduil grumbles, but his eyes twinkle as well, alight with mischief. “Ah well, since your mother has revealed our ruse: no, you are not to be scolded. But we do have something else to discuss with you.”

Laerwen’s stomach squirms again. They are both looking at her far too intently, and she suddenly has the feeling that they _know_.

“What is it?” she squeaks.

Her parents exchange another look, and Cuindis nods. “You have been invited to come watch me spar with your grandfather tonight,” says Thranduil.

Laerwen blinks. “I – I have?”

It is a rare invitation to receive, one which has never been extended to her before. She cannot help but wonder why now – but when the King of the Greenwood summons you, you do not decline the invitation. Not even when you are his granddaughter.

“I am honored,” she says, and follows them to the practice room.

Oropher is already in the sparring chambers when they arrive, stripped to his undershirt and breeches, his sword ready in his hand. The way he holds it appears almost lazy, but from what Laerwen has heard of his prowess, she cannot believe it is anything of the sort.

“Thranduil,” he says. “Good, you are here – and you have brought my granddaughter.” He turns piercing eyes on Laerwen. “This demonstration is not one we extend to many beyond ourselves.”

Laerwen bows to him. “It is a rare honor, Adahir,” she says. She has had less contact with him in recent years than when she was younger – she remembers the days when she was practically his pet, when he would take her out on excursions into the kingdom and show her the vast bounds of their domain . . . but of late he has closed off to her. To all, it seems, but her father.

Her father, who is stripping to his lowest layers as well, retrieving his own sword and giving it a showy twirl. Cuindis puts a hand on Laerwen’s shoulder and draws her away, to a low stone bench on the sidelines.

“This ought to be entertaining,” she murmurs. “Even I am rarely privy to these sorts of demonstrations.”

Again, Laerwen cannot shake the sense that it is a trap of some sort – that her mother’s knowing looks over the last days have all been hints leading up to this. But even if it is – and she settles in to watch – she will enjoy it as much as she can.

Thranduil and Oropher face off in the sparring circle, both moving in a wide, slow circle, both of them clearly waiting – scanning the other for weaknesses, estimating where best to strike.

Laerwen sits forward, her own concerns forgotten as she watches them. What might they be thinking? She skims her gaze over their stances, noting the balance of their practice swords, the way Thranduil’s weight has shifted very slightly onto his back left foot. His face is blank and impassive, try as she might to read it; Oropher’s lips have curled into a small smile.

And then, without warning, Oropher strikes.

Laerwen attempts to reel the motion backwards in her head, trying to judge where his body moved before he lashed out with his weapon – but she cannot do that and watch at the same time, particularly not as her father moves in a return motion faster than a viper. Their blades clash so hard that Laerwen nearly wonders if the wood will splinter – and then they both half-spin away in the opposite directions and fall back into their watchful stances.

Laerwen has not been privileged to view such a demonstration before, but now she can truly see what thousands of years of practice bring: her own fifty years of sword-training feel paltry compared to the feats they perform. Thranduil makes the next advance, with similar results, and Laerwen realizes they are both _playing_ – feeling for one another’s strengths before launching into true attacks.

“It is never easy to determine who will emerge victorious,” her mother murmurs into her ear. “They are so evenly matched that the results vary according to fortune by the day.”

As she speaks, Thranduil attacks.

In earnest this time. His practice sword flicks out, aiming a blow to Oropher’s upper arm. Oropher evades the blow instead of blocking it and strikes out in turn at Thranduil’s shins, but Thranduil skips nimbly back and around, darting behind his father. He aims this time for a jab between the shoulders, but Oropher whirls faster than thought and catches Thranduil’s sword with the hilt of his own.

They hold like that for a moment, each bearing down on the other, and then wrench apart at the same moment and exchange a flurry of blows and parries – again more a test, Laerwen thinks, than any true attack. She can see, though she may not be able to understand the specifics of all their motions, the way they test every part of one another’s attack and defense, the way they feel out the barriers between them.

Thranduil scores the first true hit, a glancing blow to Oropher’s shoulder. Laerwen can tell just from looking that it causes him little pain, but still – first blood, figuratively at least, goes to him. Beside her, Cuindis lets out a whoop.

Laerwen laughs, but her father turns for the barest second to blow her a kiss – and then dances out of the way of an oncoming slash.

All thoughts of the bout vanish from Laerwen’s mind. She forgot – for moments she forgot, but at the sight of that simple gesture, it all cascades back upon her, a deluge from a waterfall. She has seen such affection between her parents before, but never before has she understood so acutely how it must feel for them. To be so happily married for so many years – to have sealed the promises between them with their bodies and souls, and now to bestow affection without a thought, no matter who observes.

Would Siril watch her? Even if she were facing an opponent, if the violent intent behind each strike could not be denied? Would Siril cheer for her in pride – no, she would not do that, but Laerwen would spy her secret smile, and she might dare to do as her father has done and blow a kiss back at her, knowing her wife was proud of her – her _wife_ –

“Why, Laerwen,” remarks her mother, far too innocently. “You are blushing.”

Laerwen jams clasped hands between her knees and stares fixedly at the match without noting a single strike.

It is Thranduil who at last emerges victorious, though Laerwen can see what her mother meant – the bout lasted longer than any she has seen in her lessons, and it is more luck than anything else that brings Oropher down in the end – a stray strand of hair blocking his vision, making him a flash too slow to block the final strike that slips below his guard, Thranduil’s sword coming to rest against his collarbone just before he can bring his own up again. They stare at each other for a long moment, and at last Oropher breaks and laughs, and Thranduil beams.

Truly a masterful display from both of them, but why has Laerwen been called to witness it?

Her answer comes only a moment later. Oropher clasps her father’s bare shoulder; the smack of palm to flesh is audible, but not the words he whispers. Or perhaps he says nothing at all but merely looks at Thranduil. Whatever has passed between them, Thranduil gives the barest nod in return, and Oropher turns to where they sit.

Laerwen expects a question, a lecture – anything to clarify his purpose – but he says nothing. He only smiles at them and then comes to sit on Cuindis’s other side, turning to face the sparring circle as though watching a more fascinating spectacle than Thranduil wiping a band of cloth across his forehead, then pushing it back and tying it around his head to hold his hair back from his face. He looks, Laerwen realizes, like he is not finished.

“Laerwen,” he calls.

She springs to her feet. There is only one reason she might be expected, but she can hardly dare to believe it. “Yes?”

He gives her a mischievous smile and tips his head to the far wall where the practice swords hang.

She swallows, her eyes flicking to the side where her grandfather sits calmly, his eyes fixed on the center. He has not watched her spar since she was a child beginning lessons. And she has never fought her father before – after what she has just witnessed, her grandfather is to watch her?

But a command from her prince is not to be denied, and she makes her way across the room for a sword.

She is calculating even before she has selected a practice blade whose balance satisfies her. Only if she can determine her father’s purpose has she any hope of emerging victorious – or at least, not humiliated. He is older than she is, and more experienced – and she knows better than to think his previous bout will have tired him enough to make him easy to defeat. But he must have had some reason to invite her here, so he must want something more from her than merely a sparring partner.

Of course, the immediate thought that follows is that he seeks a demonstration of his own. But that thought makes her stomach squirm, and she pushes it away before it can catch hold and make her lose her nerve.

Instead, she settles into a defensive stance and waits. She has seen his defense; she has no hope of winning if she goes on the offensive right away. Let him tire himself out first.

He obliges her, opening with a few of the same lazy strikes he tried out against Oropher – testing the strength and shape of her guard. She remembers the way he fought before: none of these will be meant to truly connect, not just yet. So she dodges instead of parrying – save her arm strength for when she will need it later, make him _move_ to pursue her. Make him spend his energy, if possible.

Nimloth’s oft-repeated words echo in her mind – she must keep her mind alert and present, and everything that happens must merely become part of the moment for her. She must think and act at the same time, reduce the distance between mind and body. Every possible distraction must merely become part of the moment for her, must not affect her –

“So,” he says, casual, not at all short of breath. “Your mother tells me you are in love.”

Laerwen falters as his blade sweeps in, and it is all she can do to bring her own up in a clumsy parry. The force of the blow shudders down her arm and she darts backward, gives ground.

He gives her no grace, but presses his attack, grinning almost lazily. “And I see she is right. So, Laerwen, who is the fortunate elf who has been gifted your affections?”

_Recover, recover_. All his plans are coming clear now: this of course is why he called her here. Her instincts were correct when they first cornered her on her return; the sword bout must merely be a way of distracting her.

Though doing it in front of her grandfather is a new and creative form of torment. She resists the urge to glance at him, continues to back up as her father advances. Buying herself time. _Think, think, think_.

Each attack is a distraction from the other, she realizes. The interrogation is a distraction from the fight, even as the fight itself is meant to loosen her hold on her tongue. She settles back into a defensive stance, raises both guards up again. Says nothing.

Her father waits as well. He advances slowly, but speaks no word – waiting for her to break the silence. To answer his question.

“I should have thought,” she says at last, her eyes tracking his sword, “that you would know already.” Buying herself time – he has no tells that she has been able to track, so she will simply have to be ready for anything. But perhaps he thinks she is more off guard than she is; perhaps she does not know that she has recovered from her surprise. “Given how much you seem to have been told.”

“Perhaps I hoped you would tell me yourself.” He feints at her side, then strikes high at her shoulder – the same move he used to draw “first blood” in his last bout. But the blow does not hold his full strength, and she parries it easily.

Is he pulling his blows? Does he hope to draw out the fight so as to better interrogate her? She launches her own attack at last, a low jab to the gut, followed by a high strike like his own when he evades the first. “Perhaps” – their blades clash hard, and Laerwen rains another blow on his, trying to jar him more than anything else – “I wished to choose the time of my telling myself.”

He frowns at her, and she presses her attack – if she has caused him even a flicker of confusion, she ought to take advantage. “You make no attempt to deny it.”

“What good would it do?” She may be easily reduced to a blushing maid at the thought of her love, but she will not let her newfound joy be any form of weakness. And she will not deny the truth of her heart – their confrontation may be calculated for embarrassment, but it is no source of shame. She lets go caution and sends another blow crashing down on his blade. “I had no plans of hiding it from you – I had merely not worked out how to tell you yet.”

And to her utter astonishment, her father’s face breaks into a beaming smile. “You would have told us?” he says. “Truly?”

His blade falls a sliver of an inch, and Laerwen sees her chance. “Why would I keep you from my future?” she says – not letting herself be distracted by the first time she has allowed herself to speak aloud of that future – and pounces.

Ah – but it was a trap! His blade whips up faster than the streak of a firefly before the eyes, locking her hilt with his own, with such strength that she cannot hope to disengage. But instead of twisting her sword out of her hand, as she would have done, he merely holds them there, and – still grinning – brings his other hand up to clasp her shoulder. “I am so happy for you,” he says, and she cannot doubt the sincerity in his voice.

Before she can ponder whether this is merely another trap, whether she should try to free her blade, she hears clapping from the sidelines. When she darts a glance over, Oropher is rising to his feet. “Well fought, both of you,” he calls. Cuindis is beaming.

Laerwen turns back to her father, not relaxing the tension in her arm. “Match over?”

“Match over,” Oropher confirms. He comes to stand beside Thranduil, and Laerwen’s stomach squirms under the combined force of their stare. But still she does not allow herself to quail until her father has released her blade and let his own fall to his side.

“Then may I ask if all this was a ploy to force me to speak with you?”

“Not in full,” says Oropher. He sweeps his gaze over her once more from head to toes, and Laerwen forces herself to stay still, not move an inch, though she feels that he has run a measuring string over all she has done and said today. But at last he nods – in approval? Or merely as though he has made some decision for himself. “Later,” he says to Thranduil, answering some unspoken question, and inclines his head slightly to Laerwen. “Thank you for honoring me with your demonstration.”

Thrown as she may be, she at least remembers the proper response. “The honor is mine, my lord.”

He departs without another word, and Laerwen turns to her father, who still holds her shoulder in a firm clasp. Her intention is to ask him about the purpose of all this, but as soon as her eyes land on his, she sees his impish smile – and remembers what she was just compelled to confess.

“What was this about?” she tries anyway, weakly – but then her mother is beside her, hand descending onto her other shoulder, and she is trapped between the two of them and their twin anticipatory grins.

“I think,” says Cuindis, “that we are the ones who ought to be asking the questions.”


	12. Part I, Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to say for the record that I have _not_ been able to portray Siril's family in a way I'm happy with. I have an understanding of them in my mind and what they're like, but something is getting lost every time I attempt to put it on the page. They won't be showing up especially often (in part for that reason), but this is just your pre-warning. Just... try to imagine they were written by someone with a fuller grasp on the craft.

For weeks now Siril has been slipping out in the evenings instead of eating supper with her family, her absences more pointed and deliberate than ever before, and her parents have yet to make a single remark on it.

Hallassel has noticed, it seems. Tonight as Siril is gulping down her solitary meal of bread and cold venison, preparatory to making her swift exit, her sister’s head comes into view from the ladder to the _talan_, and she smiles.

“Why, Siril!” she says, her eyes gleaming like a hawk with a mouse in sight. “It feels as though I have not seen you in days.”

“Does it?” Siril says through a mouthful of crust, trying to keep her shoulders from hunching to her ears. If Hallassel sees how uncomfortable the topic makes her, she will not stop pursuing it. “You do not seem to be suffering too terribly from the lack.”

Hallassel shrugs. “Perhaps I am merely concerned for you. What could drive you away from home?”

“What indeed?” Siril murmurs. If she had Laerwen’s self-possession she might merely excuse herself – but Hallassel would not let her go, and she would rather not draw attention to her eagerness to leave.

For all that her sister _knows_ she is a significant contributor to that eagerness.

“So closed-lipped,” Hallassel teases. “Did I not know you better, I would think you had a suitor, Siril!”

She does not know what makes her do it, but she snaps her head up and glares straight into Hallassel’s face. “For all you know, perhaps I have,” she retorts.

The moment she says it, her insides dissolve into a quivering mass. What brought her to say that? Hallassel will never let go a chance to torment her; she will tease Laerwen’s name and station out of her in moments, and then she will tell their parents – or she will not tell them at all; in jealousy, she will try to sabotage Siril in this happiness she has found –

But Hallassel merely laughs. “Of course you have,” she says, waving a hand, tone light with disbelief. “What a thought! Very well, keep your secrets, if you are so insistent.”

Siril has come to be grateful for her parents’ underestimations; now she finds a new rush of gratitude that her sister shares them. Moving as swiftly as she can despite the small size of the entrance, Siril squeezes past her sister and shimmies down the ladder, running the moment her feet reach the ground.

* * *

She runs all the way to their meeting grove, driven on by urgency and discomfort, as though ants are making a nest in her stomach. Encounters with her family are always thus; she should have built her own _talan_ long ago, as Celair did – but she has never had the strength to make that break, to draw a line of separation between herself and them. It has been an easier path, all her life, to withdraw instead, to continue disappointing them until they cease to pay attention to her, and to encounter these instances as they come. But nothing seems to make them better when they do occur –

Nothing except this. As she rounds the corner and weaves her way through the shrubs, she can make out the figure of Laerwen standing in their usual spot, gold amidst the blaze of autumn leaves and early sunset. A deep breath rushes into her lungs, and her strides shorten, but her pace does not slow.

“Siril!” cries Laerwen, turning to face her, and then she is in Siril’s arms.

Laerwen is warm and lithe against her, the length of her hair softer than petals between her back and Siril’s hands. Siril tilts her head up slightly, cups the back of Laerwen’s neck, and when their lips meet, the crawling in her stomach finally dies down and she can lose herself in the bliss of this.

When they part at last, Laerwen giggles breathily against Siril’s lips. “And good evening to you, my love,” she says.

Siril’s stomach flips over at the last two words. “Say that again,” she urges. “Please.”

“My love?” Laerwen raises one finger to Siril’s lips, traces their shape until they tingle.

Siril melts into her again, but Laerwen catches her shoulders and stays her before their lips can touch once more. “I am sorry to stop you,” she says, “but in light of that, there is something I must tell you.” One of her fingers comes to rest beneath Siril’s chin, tilting it up until their eyes meet. “My parents know.”

Siril’s body goes cold at the thought. “They know?” she whispers. She does not know why she is surprised – after all they have said and done, after all the unspoken promises, there is no other way this could go. But Laerwen is the princess, after all – and there is a reason Siril has never joined her own parents at the celebrations hosted by the royal family, a reason she has never aided in their attempts to wrangle introductions or invitations. What if Laerwen’s family disapproves of her? What if they demand she find someone else?

Well – and what if they do? It will not matter to Laerwen’s heart or her own. Whatever has kindled between them will not be extinguished merely by parental disapproval – no matter how high in stature Laerwen’s parents may be.

“They know,” Laerwen repeats, “and they want to meet you.” She steals a quick peck of a kiss. “Tonight.”

* * *

It all happens so fast.

One moment she is reeling from her confrontation with her sister, and the next she is following Laerwen towards the entrance to the mountains – towards the _royal palace_.

To meet the crown prince and princess.

And – oh no. “Laerwen,” Siril peeps. “When you say your parents want to meet me” –

“Only my parents.” Laerwen squeezes her hand, inclines her head just slightly to kiss her cheek. “You are not to be presented to the king.” Her eyes dance. “Yet.”

Siril cannot help it: she lets out a tiny squeak.

“Relax,” Laerwen murmurs. She releases Siril’s hand to place her own at the small of her back, and then just _slightly_ lower, making Siril gasp at the not-quite-impropriety of it. “I will be by your side all the while. Do you trust me with this?”

She does, but she cannot help asking. “If I did not” –

Laerwen spins, catches her shoulder with her free hand. “If you do not, if you are not truly ready, tell me now,” she says seriously. “We will turn around right now and do this another time, when you are more prepared. Would you prefer that?”

Perhaps. Perhaps this is not a good time, perhaps Siril would be more ready if they waited – but she realizes that her answer to the first question is already solid, will not change from now to any other time in the future. She trusts Laerwen with this. No matter what the royals say, she trusts Laerwen.

“No,” she says, “I mean, yes, I mean – take me to your parents.” She licks her lips. “My love.”

* * *

Siril has never been inside the palace. She does not know why, but she is surprised by how much it . . . looms.

“There are windows,” Laerwen promises her, as though hearing her thoughts though Siril has spoken nothing aloud. “Large, open to the woods. My mother is Silvan, Siril, remember. We do not try to set ourselves apart.”

“No – you do not.” And truly they do not. It is strange: for all the performance Siril has grown up with, for all the emphasis on _excellence_ and ambition and presentation, it does not seem that the royals truly welcome pretension. Laerwen, certainly, strives for perfection in all she does – but she does it not in the hopes of winning any stature, for she has that already. Rather, it seems to Siril that Laerwen feels _she_ has a debt to pay to all those who inhabit the forest, who lack the benefits her status confers upon her.

And Siril remembers Laerwen’s openness to her before they had even met, before she knew anything of who Siril was – and she remembers that Thranduil too took a Silvan maid of no stature for his wife. If her parents are like Laerwen, then what has she to fear?

It does not stop the nerves, but she squeezes Laerwen’s hand and follows her inside.

The halls are not empty; they pass several elves as Laerwen tugs her down the corridors, a more even balance of pale Sindar and brown-skinned Silvan than Siril has seen anywhere else in the forest. Some Sindarin elves who came here with Thranduil and Oropher did intermingle with the Silvans in the rest of the forest, but it seems most of the few who did accompany them remained here, to work directly for the king they followed.

Siril wonders what they make of Laerwen pulling her along. More than a few curious sets of eyes have come to rest on their joined hands, and she wonders if word will be spread that the princess has a suitor.

She wonders how far it will be spread.

The thought almost makes her pull her hand free, but just then Laerwen leads her down a narrow hall and into a small entry chamber. “They will be in here,” she says, indicating the wider door. “Are you ready for me to announce us?”

“I – I suppose so,” Siril manages, and Laerwen whirls to face her with a delighted beam, her excitement enough to ease Siril’s nerves at least a little.

“For luck,” she whispers, and reels her in.

The kiss is longer and softer and sweeter than the moment warrants, and Siril forgets everything – she sways into Laerwen, arms wrapping around her waist, lips parting before she forgets why they ought not –

“Well.”

The voice is dry, amused, and belongs to neither Laerwen nor Siril. Siril gasps, very nearly clacking her teeth against Laerwen’s as she jerks back and the latter whirls, and they come face to face with the crown prince of the Greenwood.

Siril has never seen Thranduil Oropherion in person, but she would know him anywhere, even if she had not come here with the intent of seeing him. Not only does he look strikingly like Laerwen, but power and majesty fairly radiate from him, for all the amusement gleaming in his eyes. Instinctively, Siril lets go of Laerwen’s waist and slides to her knees.

Laerwen, meanwhile, has shifted into a defensive stance half in front of Siril. “Adar!” she says, a kind of embarrassed exasperation in her voice that Siril has never heard. She would find it endearing, were she not on the verge of bursting into flames on the spot. “You told me you would _wait_!” She glances back at Siril and beckons her to rise. “I am sorry for my father’s poor manners.”

Laerwen turns back to face her father, and Siril does not dare to stand. Laerwen may have given her permission, but she is Thranduil’s daughter, after all – and the prince himself stands before her.

“Forgive me; I could not stay him.” The door through which Thranduil entered opens once more and a second figure emerges – smaller and slighter, clearly Silvan in coloring, but Siril can see her resemblance to Laerwen in her small half-smile, in the corners of her eyes and the shape of her nose. The princess Cuindis.

“I think you are lying,” says Laerwen, “and you were just as eager to spy.”

“Do not blame your mother.” Thranduil’s eyes twinkle. “I heard voices outside, and when your summons did not follow them, I grew curious and wondered what had delayed your entry. Indeed, I could not be certain how long you would delay.”

“Adar!” Laerwen cries – and despite the embarrassment, despite the intimidation of staring into the faces of the prince and princess that keeps her on her knees, Siril finds herself smiling. This is not, she thinks, how royals ought to act – and yet it eases her, just as Laerwen herself does. Draws her in. Makes her want to know more.

The princess Cuindis steps around Laerwen and comes to look over Siril with a keen eye. “You need not kneel to us,” she says. “And I am sorry to fluster you so. My husband is merely impatient.”

Siril hesitates, but rises when Cuindis beckons her. Laerwen’s mother is small and dainty, and Siril knows she herself is not ungraceful, but she still feels ungainly and awkward in comparison to her. But Cuindis’s eyes are kind, and her smile eases some of the tension in Siril’s limbs. “Thank you,” she says softly, though she still cannot quite bring herself to meet the eyes of either of Laerwen’s parents.

Laerwen steps back so that she stands at Siril’s side. “Please forgive me for my parents,” she says, laying a hand on Siril’s shoulder and squeezing gently. “They wish only to torment me, and unfortunately you stand in the line of fire.”

Thranduil’s eyes narrow, sweeping over Siril until it is all she can do not to shrink back. “Mostly,” he says.

It is not comforting.

“Adar,” Laerwen begins to protest, but Siril shakes her head. She may have long been taught to revere the royal family, but she would have them judge her on herself, not on Laerwen’s feelings for her. Her parents would urge her to speak now, to say something clever or impressive. But she can think of nothing, and she will not make a pretense of herself for their approval. They will know her as she is, and she and Laerwen will face together whatever arises from this meeting.

It is almost as though Thranduil can see what she is thinking; he rakes her with his gaze once more and then gives a tiny nod. Though he has said nothing, Siril can feel that the test is over; the tension rushes out of her limbs, and Laerwen’s grip tightens on her shoulder.

“Well,” says the princess Cuindis. “Now that you have been sufficiently intimidated, we would like to truly meet the maid with whom our daughter is so besotted.”

Laerwen’s cheeks glow redder – and in a way, it gives Siril some odd relief. Her own parents would not tease her so; her siblings might, but – there is an undercurrent of kindness in this mockery that sets her at ease. There is care here, she realizes, and genuine fondness – here in this family that she once imagined must be so like her own. And in the royals’ eyes, she sees more than mere teasing – but true welcome.

“Come, then,” Thranduil says. He opens the door again, this time holding it for all of them. “Come inside, and tell us about yourself.”


	13. Part I, Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned for some NSFW content in this chapter.

Laerwen’s bedchambers are silent.

They have never been this silent before; usually she keeps her shutters thrown open, the better to hear the night-speech of insects and owls and trees, and her door open a crack, so she might hear immediately if aught is amiss in the halls. But tonight is different.

Tonight she has closed her door tightly, drawn shutters and shades over her windows. Tonight, she shuts out all the sounds of the night and wraps herself in the thickest blanket of silence she can weave.

Tonight . . .

Tonight she lies curled on her side, her breathing slow but shallow, her cheeks boiling with a heat she has never felt before, and she thinks about the evening that preceded it.

Her meetings with Siril have become almost nightly now, no longer at the clearing that provides little cover, but in a little grove between there and Siril’s garden, where few will find them. Sometimes they whisper, giggle, share songs or poems or secrets. Sometimes they dance. Sometimes they do none of that, and there is only kissing and long, slow touches – touches that grow bolder every night.

Laerwen’s light nightdress lies heavy and hot on her skin; she wriggles in it until her flushed body is exposed to the night air – dark and cool and concealing.

Tonight Siril kissed her until they were both breathless, until the point when they usually stop and then beyond. Kissed her jaw and her neck, and then further up and back, as her hands made their way into Laerwen’s hair and unbound her scattering of braids, one after another, with motions somehow swift and unhurried at the same time.

Laerwen can still feel the ghost-tingles of Siril’s fingers against her scalp; she shudders at the thought and brings one hand up to trace the tip of her ear where Siril’s mouth lingered, where she kissed and nipped until Laerwen’s knees were trembling and her skin tight and she thought she might beg, though she knew not for what –

Her other hand creeps between her thighs.

She shivers. The air is heavy and still, but a nonexistent breeze seems to ripple across her, raising her skin to gooseflesh and tightening her nipples until she hisses in a breath. Between her legs, her fingers tangle in her hair, and then venture lower.

Tonight, Siril’s lips and tongue against her ear drove her into a frenzy until she could hardly think, until all she felt was the rocking motion building inside her, pooling heat between her legs, her hips surging without her control. When she realized it, the sudden self-consciousness was enough to startle her, and Siril drew back.

“Did I do wrong?” she whispered.

“No,” Laerwen said back, her own voice so hoarse she did not know herself. “But I want a turn.”

That heat is back again, or perhaps it never left: burning, ravaging something in her lower belly, begging to be quenched – and nothing will stop it but touch. Now her fingers circle at the lips of the opening between her thighs, anticipatory wetness slicking her fingertips and dampening the hair. The scent that rises into the air is heavy, musky – Laerwen’s own odor is almost unnoticeable to her, except after the most grueling of training sessions, but this – this is something other.

She has done this before, as a child and then an adult, seeking sensation and nothing else. But never before has she felt this _compulsion_ to touch herself – and never before has her mind been so full of image and sensation when doing so.

Full, yes – full of the scent of Siril’s hair when she buried her own head against the join of neck and ear, the silkiness of the waves when her stumbling fingers finally pulled it free from the pin that always holds it back so sternly. Full of the salty sweetness of Siril’s skin, slick with sweat beneath her hands and mouth. Full of the sound of her heavy breath, the tiny whimpers that ghosted in her throat when Laerwen flicked her tongue against the tip of an ear. Full of the softness of Siril’s breasts and belly flush against her own, the surge of her hips in a motion Laerwen could not help but mirror –

Her hips move again with the memory; she probes deeper into her body, sliding until – _there – ah – _her belly clenches and she rides the motion of her fingers in a sudden spasm, which holds her in the thrall of almost-bliss for just a moment before ebbing. She can think in its wake, but it was not enough; she needs something more, and this half-taste has only roused in her a deeper, more desperate hunger.

She presses her fingers forward again, her hips jutting forward to meet them, and stifles the quiet grunt that very nearly pushes itself from her throat.

This is where they were, before, moving against one another, faster, driven by desperation towards a peak neither of them could understand; she was very nearly lost, tumbling in a current, swept away by the motion and the heat between them, and Siril’s sudden whisper –

“I would like – _ah_ – very much – to wed you.”

Those words did what perhaps nothing else could have – they sobered Laerwen immediately. She felt her body go still in shock, her lips slipping away from Siril’s neck, her hands loosening where they cupped Siril’s neck and hip. “You – you would?”

They were still close enough that she felt Siril stiffen beside her – she remembered with a wild flash of panic those first days, when they had communicated so poorly, and she searched for the words to explain her surprise, to make it right, tightening her grip on Siril again to assure her she did not wish her to go.

But Siril took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I would,” she said. “I would not lie to you, but if you wish it not” –

“Of course I wish it!” Laerwen whispered. Her face went hot with the words, but she did not let herself draw away. “Can you not feel that I desire it as you do? It is only – there are things we must do first, ceremonies to be observed” –

“I know,” Siril panted, and she pouted, but Laerwen could see the real joy in her eyes. “I merely – I only wanted you to know.”

Tonight they stopped, but in her thoughts, Laerwen lets them carry on.

In her mind, Siril takes her in her arms once more, peels her clothing from her piece by piece, strips her own with her usual grace. In her mind, she can see the way Siril’s body must move in bare flesh: waves and ripples that carry each motion through to completion, her breasts hanging heavy against her belly, her strong thighs, the curve of her hips and buttocks –

Her free hand slides up and down her own body, caressing her breasts and belly as though it can hope to make up alone for the deftness of Siril’s gardener-weaver’s fingers. Every light touch drives the frenzy within her until she is clenching her teeth against her own moans, hips pressing more and more desperately into the other hand as the feeling builds. She turns half onto her belly, wedges the hand between herself and the bed, and still it is not enough, still that maddening, burning _pulse_ within her cries out for release, cries out, _cries_ –

She presses her face hard into her pillow as a haze of bliss washes over her, and all the discipline she has ever learned is _just_ enough to let her swallow down her own cry of relief when it comes at last.

Afterwards, she lies trembling, too warm in the cool but heavy night air, but too shaky to stand. This is not the first time she has done this, but never has she felt that _need_, those driving thoughts – and never before has she experienced such a peak. And if such pleasure can be had with herself alone, what awaits her on their wedding night, when it finally arrives?

After a long moment, she withdraws her fingers, wipes them off on her sheets. Brings them to her nose and inhales the surprising scent of herself.

Will Siril do this? she wonders, and a shock of pleasure ripples over her sensitive skin at the thought.

All of this is new, new in a way she never could have imagined – and there are newer, better things yet to come. Laerwen has always been a diligent student, eager in lessons to know the answer even before the question can be asked – and now she finds herself facing a future of more years than she can yet imagine, with more surprises to come than anyone can predict.

It should terrify her, the thought of planning so many years, so many new discoveries, with one she has known for such a short time. But –

But they will make the discoveries together.

When she spoke to her parents, when they first teased her into confessing, she would not make the conversation easy for them. Not only to punish them for their excessive curiosity – but because she could not bring herself to speak without reservation of her feelings. In the face of their greater age, of the demonstration she had seen between her father and grandfather just moments before, how could she confess to them that she, not even a hundred years of age, had found someone she wished to spend her life with? How could she look at all they had shared, all they had experienced before coming to know their lovers, and think that she herself was ready for the same?

But when her mother finally gleaned the reason for her reticence, she merely laughed and took Laerwen’s hand between both of hers. “My dear,” she said, her voice so fond that Laerwen did not recoil from her amusement. “You know that to find a partner even so late as we did is rare – much less common than what you are experiencing now.”

“Perhaps,” Laerwen murmured, unable to meet her gaze.

“There are some who will argue that you ought to wait until you have grown into yourself before you may look for love,” her father said, touching her shoulder briefly. “But consider this: in all the ages that you might live, were you to wait until you had become all you could be, you would be waiting long years indeed.”

It was comforting to hear those words from his lips – from her father, who has experienced more than most and still – she realized then – has so many years left to live. Even now, she smiles thinking back on it. But it is her mother’s next words that took up residence within her, that warm her heart now and steady her spirit.

“Love among elves is not a craft,” she said, “not something to be created and finished and left on a shelf or put to use. Our love is a vine that grows along with us: ever changing, ever climbing. Our hearts seek out those whose lives will twine with our own, who will weather the storms when they come and blossom come springtime – who will change with us into whatever shapes our lives end up taking.”

Laerwen’s life, it seems, has always been shaped in one way, by her family’s careful hands. But her mother is right – in the years that she might live, who knows what she might become? Who knows what she might do, what she might weather? At her age now, so near the beginning of her life, she cannot even begin to imagine.

But – she can imagine Siril by her side through all of it. Learning with her, loving her, no matter what comes of their lives.

She strokes herself again – with less intent this time, more thoughtful, for the shiver of sensation and the reminder of the intensity of her experience moments ago. Her thoughts might lie, but her body does not. It has awakened to the touch of her partner, her love, her – betrothed.

Betrothed. She shivers at the word.

Yes, this is right. No matter what happens, it is right.

She knows enough now not to doubt.


	14. Part I, Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I have finally arrived at the chapter I'm really unsatisfied with. I know I'm not supposed to announce these things, but I feel like... this is an attempt to handle a delicate situation, and describe distasteful people, that I KNOW doesn't reach the full potential of what I imagine for it in my head. So if something feels misrepresented or overwrought or anything... I'm sorry.
> 
> Warning for just... weird, dysfunctional family dynamics ahead.

She tells Celair before she speaks to her parents.

Oh, Siril knows she will have to tell them one day – now that she has announced her intent to marry the daughter of the crown prince, she can hardly keep her affections a secret. But she has spent so long keeping her affairs quiet that she does not know how to speak of them to anyone not directly concerned.

She and Celair have never been close, not exactly, but ze is her nearest in age, and shares her desire to keep to hirself. Perhaps ze will understand – or perhaps, if nothing else, Siril can merely practice sharing her feelings before she must tell her mother and father.

Their family lives in a semicircle of _telain_ surrounding the larger two in the center where they share meals and where their parents and some of the children sleep. Siril still lives in the _talan_ with her parents and Hallassel, much though she might regret it at times. Celair is Siril’s elder by some fifty years; ze built hir own separate _talan_ when Siril was still a child of only thirty. “You will understand the need for a space of your own,” ze told Siril, before decisively creating that space for hirself.

Even at that age, Siril understood; now, she laughs to think of what her future must be. She will distance herself from her family, yes, but only through fulfilling the dreams her parents have long since abandoned any hope of her carrying out.

She has not spent much time in Celair’s _talan_, but she has always been glad that it, unlike most of their family’s spaces, is built with her size in mind. Celair is hard muscle where she is soft curve, but like her, ze is built broad and sturdy, and constructed hir home with enough space for them to move around comfortably – low in hir chosen tree, with thick handholds built directly into the trunk for ease of climbing. They are both graceful enough climbers, but the thin higher branches often protest under their weight, and they would not subject the forest to undue difficulty.

Celair is not here yet – ze must have been delayed with one of hir students. Hir choice of teaching above more lucrative pursuits – and their parents’ disappointment – is one of Siril’s earliest memories. She has since found herself grateful for it – at least they were better prepared for her own lack of ambition.

She almost laughs to think of that now. Instead she settles herself comfortably on the platform and waits.

Celair returns home before too long, hoisting hirself into the tree – and then raising hir eyebrows at the sight of hir unexpected guest. “Siril,” ze says. “Surely it is not only the pleasure of my company that brings you to visit?”

“It is true that I have a purpose,” she says, “but I believe that purpose to be entirely reliant on the pleasure of your company.”

Celair sweeps past her and fetches an assortment of dried fruits and nuts from a small woven basket on a shelf. “Forgive me the poor fare; I had no notion that I would be entertaining today.”

Siril smiles and knots her fists in her lap. “I make no requests of you save your advice,” she admits.

“My advice!” Ze drops to a sitting position beside her, spreading the food on the floor before them. “Shall we commemorate this momentous occasion, sister? I cannot think of a time I was thought worthy of advising!”

Siril manages a half-smile. “Your advice has always been the best, as you are well aware.” Ze has given her only a few pieces of advice in her life – _keep your head down and you will be free to pursue your own desires; listening often brings greater reward than speech _– but they have always been of more use than anything she has gotten from more ostensibly knowledgeable sources.

Celair does not smile back; clearly, ze can tell that she is serious. Instead, ze sighs, leans back on hir hands, and looks closely at Siril. “Tell me, then,” ze says. “What is wrong?”

“I” – Siril hesitates. Gnaws her lower lip. Why are these words so difficult to say? “I have been – I plan to” –

She can see Celair taking in her nervousness; hir brows rise. “What can possibly” –

“To wed,” she blurts, before ze can finish hir question. She drops her gaze to her hands; that first barrier broken, she can make herself say the rest. “I am in love.”

Celair startles. This is clearly not what ze was expecting – perhaps because ze has no partner; why then would Siril come to hir? But ze recovers neatly. “Felicitations, then!” ze says. “Why do you seem so glum, if you have found one you wish to wed?” Hir eyes narrow. “Can it be that your chosen will not meet the standards of our dear Adar and Naneth?”

She cannot help it – she laughs. There is, at least, a dimension of humor to her story. “Their standards would have to be high indeed for that to be the case. No, quite to the contrary.” Again she hesitates, but did she not come here expressly for this purpose? “Tell me, Celair, what significance has the name Laerwen Thranduiliel to you?”

_Now_ she has hir full attention; ze sits up straight and stares. “Siril _Mechenebiel_,” ze says. “The crown prince’s daughter?”

“The very same.”

Celair blinks at her for a moment or two; it goes very quiet. “And,” ze says at last, “Siril, I do not mean to insinuate anything, but – does the crown prince’s daughter also wish to wed you?”

Anger flushes through her faster than she would have thought possible, thrumming heat just beneath her skin – and the crawling sting behind her eyes of betrayed tears. “Is that what you think of me, then? That I would impose my will on another” –

“Siril, no!” She does not know when, but at some point she rose to her feet; Celair stands now to catch her hand. “That is not what I meant! I do not question the truth of your sentiment or your intentions!”

“Then what?”

“I wanted merely to ask if your feelings were returned,” says Celair. Hir voice softens as Siril gives way to the tug on her hand and settles back into a seated position. “I did not expect you to come to me for courting advice, but I would be sure that was not your purpose before we continue. And perhaps,” hir eyes twinkle, “I wished to know how you had captured the eye of a princess.”

Siril allows herself to be placated, but Celair’s reaction – whether or not ze intended it so – has given rise to a new fear of how her parents will respond. Perhaps they will simply not believe her – or perhaps they will think she has set this as a goal for herself and laugh at her audacity – the thought that after all these years of failing to heed their advice, she has set for herself the highest catch of all. It is an absurd thought, after all – and a simple enough claim to disprove, but that does not mean she cannot be hurt by it.

But Laerwen –

“She caught my eye first,” Siril confesses, but habit keeps her words few, her revelations discreet. “But somehow I caught hers as well.”

And are those few words not the truth of their story – and the miracle of it? Siril has always been skilled at going unseen: around her family and her peers alike, her reticence preemptively repelling all who might have tried to draw near to her. She has long known to distrust the world, to hide herself from its prying eyes – and her habit of concealment became a second skin sealed tightly over her own. Even when she first spied Laerwen at her practice, even when she ensconced herself in bushes to watch, she did not once imagine that she would truly be seen.

But she was.

Laerwen saw her – and ever since that moment, Siril has no longer been invisible.

“You are grinning like a fool,” remarks Celair, with that same wicked gleam in hir eyes. “You _must_ be in love; I have never seen you thus before.”

She has never _felt_ thus before – even Celair’s teasing sends a glow of pleasure throughout her at the thought that she has such a delicious secret to share; at the thought that she _can_ share it. And how did she not realize this before? – she _wants_ to! She no longer wishes to keep Laerwen to herself alone: she wants to tell their story to all who will listen; to name her wife before the whole kingdom; to shout her devotion to the treetops and beyond them.

And in the face of that, what does it matter how her family will react?

She rises to her feet again, so abruptly that Celair starts. “Thank you, Celair,” she says, making no effort to wipe the smile from her face. “You have given me exactly what I needed.”

Celair’s face suggests that ze is beginning to question Siril’s clarity of mind. “I have . . . what? You have told me nothing!” Siril is already rising to leave, but Celair’s fingers wrap around her wrist before she can depart. “Oh, no,” ze says. “You may not leave before you have told me your tale – or at very least what I have done to advise you!”

Siril pauses, still aglow with this new revelation, with the fire of certainty blazing in her chest. Slowly, she turns back to Celair and lets hir tug her back down into sitting.

“Very well,” she says, unable to contain her smile, and she tells Celair everything.

* * *

“Are you ready for this?” Siril murmurs into Laerwen’s ear.

“More so, I think, than you were.” She still looks back with some guilt on the haste with which she presented Siril to her own parents – though she cannot regret it, not when they came so easily to adore her.

“Their attention is the full force of a waterfall – and it will all be on you,” Siril warns. “I do not know if you can truly be prepared for that.”

“As though my parents did not do the same to you!” Indeed, by the time Siril finally pleaded her excuses that night, Thranduil had uncorked two bottles of wine and at least two dozen of his best stories from Laerwen’s childhood – almost enough to make Laerwen wish for the short life of a mortal. And when Siril finally made her excuses and Laerwen rose to escort her out, Cuindis embraced her like a long-lost family member.

Siril’s lips twist to the side. “It is not the same,” she says unhappily. “But – ah well. I suppose you will see.” She catches Laerwen’s shoulder before she can approach the ladder to the _talan_, her voice taking on a new urgency. “But if they say or do anything that feels odd to you, or makes you question their motivations – know that your instincts are to be trusted above their manipulations.”

What a warning! Laerwen will do what she can to show respect to her love’s family, in thanks for the life they gave to Siril, but – but she has had little fondness for them since Siril first revealed her reasons for staying far from home, and her opinion of them has lowered still further, for making Siril feel the need to warn Laerwen that they are not to be trusted.

She would never believe the words of another over the truth of Siril’s heart, anyway, and gives Siril to know it with a quick squeeze of the hand, a brush of her lips over Siril’s knuckles. Siril smiles in response, but the smile flees as she turns toward the ladder, takes a deep breath, and sets her shoulders like someone about to walk into a windstorm.

When they ascend the ladder to Siril’s dwelling, Laerwen thinks dryly that _windstorm_ is close enough. Her head has hardly cleared the platform before at least three unfamiliar elves have practically descended on her, bowing, reaching out to help her up into the _talan_ as though she needs the aid, with smiles that take up half the space in the home.

“Well met, well met!” cries the first elf: slightly taller than Siril, slenderer, with longer hair that flows past her waistline and catches every flicker of light from the lanterns twinkling throughout the branches. “You are the princess, of course! Laerwen – may we call you Laerwen?”

Laerwen fights back a frown. “The family of my betrothed may of course call me by my name,” she says, though the ease of the presumed familiarity prickles at her. Why now, she wonders, when she fought for so long to convince Siril to use her name instead of her title? Can it be that she has let her position swell her ego more than she intended?

She turns to catch Siril’s hand as she climbs up herself – but they have surrounded her more adeptly than any ambush, cutting her off. Over the shoulder of someone who has still not been introduced, Siril offers her a helpless shrug.

Laerwen tries to shake off the apprehension. “But I believe you have me at a disadvantage. Might I ask for introductions as well?”

“Oh, of course, of course,” trills the elf who greeted Laerwen first, “how silly of me. I am Mecheneb.” _My mother,_ Siril mouths, and Laerwen gives her a grateful half-smile. “This is my husband Faragad, our eldest daughter Hallassel, and our son Hethundir. Celair and Faeleth could not come tonight, to their great regret.”

Siril gives a tiny huff of laughter, so soft that Laerwen’s ears almost do not catch it. The sister, Hallassel, jerks around to face her, and quirks an eyebrow in a way that makes Siril flush. Laerwen tries to shift closer to take her hand, but finds herself intercepted by the brother – Hethundir – standing directly at her shoulder, greeting her with a smile simultaneously obsequious and overly-familiar. But the sound seems to have at least reminded Mecheneb that Siril is here, for she too turns in the direction of her daughter. “And you know Siril, of course.”

“I . . . certainly do know Siril.” The family has swept between them until Siril seems miles away rather than merely across the room; Laerwen’s balance feels off, the platform not quite even beneath her feet. She remembers Siril’s words, _know that it is intentional,_ and begins to understand. “She is the reason I am here today, after all.”

“Of course, of course,” Mecheneb says again, waving an airy hand. “But let us leave the business matters until later, if you would do us the kindness!” _Business?_ But Mecheneb leaves only a pause small enough for the agreement Laerwen does not give. “We are honored to welcome you to our humble home!”

Humble, perhaps, but – Laerwen cannot quite place exactly what feels so false about it; perfect tidiness is expected when greeting guests, after all, and she knows such artifices from her own family’s playing host to guests from other kingdoms. The Greenwood is not wealthy in gems and gold as are other kingdoms, but what little they have is always out on display so that visitors might believe they have wealth to spare, that they need not fear theft – and that they are confident enough in their security not to worry about leaving valuables in view. It feels like a similar artifice here, though she cannot explain exactly why: not only the desire to put up an impressive front, but also the false humility, the pretense that it is always thus here.

Or perhaps it always _is_ thus, a display rather than a home, and Laerwen can understand Siril’s discomfort. She has never known a more honest soul than her betrothed; it is no wonder she so often chooses to explore the forest rather than remain here.

The evening goes on thus. Laerwen and Siril are seated as far apart as Mecheneb can contrive; the conversation is endless and the questions intrusive, but phrased lightly enough to make them seem like simple chatter. Laerwen is treated to the name and station of every sibling, as well as a long list of all the people they know, as if in the hopes of establishing a line of contact through which she might have encountered them before. 

Hethundir is a healer, she is told, and even studied under Alugail herself for a time – though this must have been before Laerwen’s birth; she does not recognize him, for all the hopeful questions. Hallassel is highly valued in the textile guild and has designed clothing used by the king’s army; Faeleth, the sister who was unable to come, is married to a soldier Laerwen has never met. The other absent sibling, Celair, is spared a brief mention – ze is a tutor and guardian to young children, it seems, but evidently hir students are of little note, as they are not named.

Siril herself receives less attention than the absent siblings – from her parents, at least; whenever Laerwen tries to raise the subject of their betrothal, they fixate once more on their delight in welcoming Laerwen to the family, steering the subject away from their own daughter. But her sister giggles in her direction every time the subject is raised, and her brother imposes himself in Laerwen’s path whenever she attempts to make eye contact with her betrothed.

For her part, Siril speaks little and nibbles at her food; Laerwen nearly envies her the ability to eat, for she is too engaged fending off questions and compliments that never seem to reach the heart of her or the reason she is here. And all the while discomfort prickles at her, like ants crawling just beneath the outer layer of her skin, and uncharacteristic restless energy claws within her belly.

At last, when they have finished their dessert of fruit and cream, Laerwen makes to stand. “I thank you for your hospitality, Mecheneb, Faragad.” She bows to them. “But I think it is time I returned to my home.”

Siril jerks as though to stand as well, but her mother is on her feet first. “We are sorry to see you go so soon, Laerwen. Will you not stay a little longer?”

Laerwen swallows. She does not enjoy the dishonesty this visit has pressed from her already, and she struggles to phrase her answer to best avoid it. “It would be an honor,” she says slowly, “but I think it is best I do not tarry overlong. If you will forgive me.”

“I will escort you out,” Siril says quickly, but her sister Hallassel turns on her with a sickly smile.

“We all will,” she says – and with her words, the entire family rises and follows Laerwen down the ladder and out of their _talan_.

All but Siril, who has melted into the background and disappeared.

The goodbyes are as long and arduous as the meal itself, she thinks. Laerwen shakes hands and accepts embraces and kisses on the cheek, all the while ready to smother from the heat of their collected attention and looking around for Siril, who seems to have disappeared amidst the press. For a moment she almost panics – have they somehow swept her betrothed away? Or has Siril fled while she had the chance and abandoned Laerwen to an interminable fate?

But when she finally manages to break away from the huddle and practically run off into the forest, she hears a rustle behind her.

“I am sorry for leaving you to them,” Siril murmurs, melting out of the trees like a wraith. “Even for only moments, while I slipped away.”

“As well you should be.” Laerwen reaches for her anyway, something in her relaxing as soon as their hands touch. This feeling almost alarms her – the discontent after only a few hours without feeling her love’s skin against her own – but not enough that she has any desire to pull away. “I feared you had been spirited away – or slipped away yourself, never to return.”

“Once I had snared you in the jaws of the trap?” Siril smiles weakly and brushes Laerwen’s hair aside to place a kiss just against the spot where her jaw meets her neck. “I did try to warn you.”

Laerwen lets herself sink against Siril’s side. “You did. And I could not have understood until I had seen it, I think.” She hesitates, loath to speak harshly of Siril’s family to her, for all Siril has done so herself. “Your parents are . . .”

“Shallow, false, and deafened by the echoes in their own minds?” The words rush out, as though Siril would anticipate all possible criticism before Laerwen can speak it.

“_Overwhelming_ was all I would have said.” Laerwen smiles, but it fades quickly. “Has your sister always mocked you so?”

Siril shrugs. “There is a reason I have become so familiar with the forest outside my home.”

“Oh, my love.” Laerwen tilts her chin up and kisses her lips: short and sweet; then again, long and slow. “You are welcome to my family, and they are so glad to have you.” She hesitates; they have not discussed this, but – “Does this mean you will not be opposed to moving into my chambers in the palace when we wed?”

Siril starts, but Laerwen’s stomach has not even had the chance to drop before she speaks. “I had thought that was understood.”

“Oh!” Laerwen blinks at her, then laughs sheepishly. “I would not have assumed – I mean, I” –

“Would you really have come to live with me?” Siril asks wryly. “Even before you met my parents and they frightened you off for good?”

“I – well.” Laerwen flushes. She had not thought so far ahead as that, beyond the wondering. “I had thought perhaps you would not wish to live beneath the stone.”

“So you would have left it for me?” Siril’s eyes go soft and her fingers softer, brushing at the line of Laerwen’s jaw until she shivers. “If I had only asked?”

Laerwen shrugs, the heat in her face following the line of Siril’s fingers. “I knew you would not ask me to renounce my duties or my heritage,” she manages. “Beyond that – if you had no desire to live in the palace, I would not ask it if you. We would find a place for just the two of us, near enough that I could be reached if necessary. But if you wish to come live with me, near my parents and my” –

She cannot finish. Siril’s mouth is over hers again, muffling her words and then her thoughts until she forgets what she would have said.

When they part, Siril’s eyes are glowing in the light of the waning moon just as they did on the night they first kissed. “Yes,” she says softly, while Laerwen scrambles to remind herself what words are. “Yes, I will come to live with you and your family.” She brushes her lips over Laerwen’s again: once, twice, sweeter than anything Laerwen has ever known. “It would be an honor.”


	15. Part I, Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a wedding!

There is a feast, of course.

They need none; the ceremony will occur between the two of them alone, and it would be as true if announced to no one as it will be now after a grand celebration. But their revels are what the elves of the Greenwood are known for, and Laerwen supposes it would be too much to ask for her family to restrain themselves.

Anyhow, she can hardly go against the specific requests of her family – not when her mother cornered her early into her betrothal and laughingly asked that she postpone the day of her wedding until such time as they could celebrate her properly. And so she has restrained herself, even when it physically ached to do so – and now that the celebration has finally come, her family seems determined to make it worth the wait.

There are speeches, and songs, and dancing late into the night. Her grandfather gives them a toast of congratulations, and then holds her by the shoulders and looks long into her eyes, as though seeking something from her – and then he lets her go and nods his blessing. And the assembled elves – Sindarin and Silvan alike – roar with joy, and dive into their wine goblets yet again.

Laerwen wonders if this was what it was like when her own parents wed – perhaps even more so, as the Silvan inhabitants of the forest celebrated the binding of their kind with those they had accepted as their own, celebrated the fact that they would have an assured voice within the new-made royal family – one that would solidify the bargains they had struck for their independence. But then, perhaps the two peoples had not yet learned to trust one another; perhaps their celebrations came with reservations then. Now they have lived together for a thousand years, and they drink together as one people.

Laerwen herself touches no wine. She is not above the revels for which her family is so well known – but she wants to remember with clarity every moment of this night.

Siril, too, does not drink, but she looks more overwhelmed than excited. Laerwen touches her little finger to Siril’s where it rests beside her plate and murmurs, “Are you well?”

“Yes,” whispers Siril back, but she looks around as though overawed.

“I am sorry.” Laerwen lets her finger slide over just a bit further, in a subtle caress, and feels the thrill run through both of their bodies. “I wish I could tell you they will stop.”

Siril laughs, and her eyes flicker up in a sideways glance that stirs up a flurry of sparks in Laerwen’s belly. “Perhaps we need not stay while they carry on,” she responds, and the fire spreads through Laerwen’s whole body until she feels she will burst into flame on the spot.

The toasts grow longer and louder and sillier; musicians strike up a tune and Thranduil pulls Cuindis out into the clearing, both of them laughing even before the dance begins. Siril casts another glance at Laerwen and raises her eyebrows in question.

Laerwen needs no more urging. “Now,” she whispers, and they flee.

Their hands slide together as they rise, drawn by the same pull that urges Laerwen’s whole body: closer, closer. She must resist, but only for another few moments – they glance around, secret smiles threatening any moment to overflow into giggles – they take a few subtle steps away from the table – and then they run.

Who knows if they have been observed, who knows how soon their premature flight will be discovered – but one thing Laerwen does know is that they will not be followed. Surely they will not be begrudged their eagerness to wed in truth.

Laerwen’s mother gifted them the bower they are to use tonight: cradled beneath the clustered boughs of a small grove of larches, it is quiet and enclosed, but does not cut them off from the rest of the world. Cuindis spent hours preparing it, though she would not let Laerwen see, and so now it feels almost deliciously illicit to lift aside the whispering silk curtain hung from the branches and see what her mother has laid out for them.

“Oh,” Siril says quietly behind her. “Your mother spared no effort, did she?”

“No.” Laerwen tiptoes across the threshold and holds an arm out for Siril. “Come in, my wife-to-be.” Oh, but those words send a thrill through her like she has never known, and Siril mirrors her shiver. “It seems this is what a royal wedding is in the Greenwood.”

Siril follows her in on tentative feet, gazing around in awe at the silk cushions and silver platters laid with all kinds of delights: berries, biscuits, pitchers of wine, tiny tarts – all in miniature, the better to place between another’s lips –

Laerwen cannot stop the shiver of delight that races through her at the thought.

“It is not what I imagined,” says Siril. “But then, I never dared to imagine this.” She stares straight into Laerwen’s eyes, into her soul. “I never dared to imagine _you_.”

Laerwen leaps at her.

Another day, she might be embarrassed by her enthusiasm, but love and desire and impatience have all been coiling within her, tighter and tighter, like a spring waiting to be released – and now all that energy surges free, and all she can do is pounce.

They go down backwards onto a mound of pillows, legs tangled; Siril laughs, but only for a moment, for Laerwen tugs her onto her side and seals their lips together and they both dissolve into the tiny eternity of their kiss.

Ah, but Siril’s mouth _is_ the night sky, warm and gentle and so endless it seems to encompass all of Laerwen’s soul. She closes her eyes tightly, and stars explode across her vision.

One kiss follows another, their bodies falling so easily back into that rolling, writhing motion that overtook them before – pushing into one another, hips surging, legs tangling –

Only to be interrupted, suddenly, by the interfering hems of their matching gowns.

Laerwen’s foot catches in Siril’s clothing, and it is enough to startle her free of the easy, building rhythm. She jolts, blushes – inches back. Not quite able to return to the motion, now that she has become so aware of it.

Siril laughs a little, similarly shy. “Perhaps,” she plucks at her robe, “perhaps we ought to be rid of these?”

“That would be a good place to start.” Laerwen giggles as well. She might flounder in the newness of all this, but at least she is floundering with Siril – with the one she loves.

Siril’s hand flutters over Laerwen’s shoulder, and then up. Her fingers twine into Laerwen’s hair, and Laerwen shudders with delight. “May I undo your braids?”

“Oh, yes,” Laerwen breathes. She too has longed to release Siril’s hair once more from the pin that holds it in place, to watch it fall free in all its unbound glory – but that thought reminds her. “But first, I have a wedding gift for you.”

“For me?” Siril’s mouth and eyes go round at the same time.

“For my wife-to-be,” Laerwen says, and the smile that creeps onto her face is irrepressible. “For none other than you.”

She fumbles in her pocket and pulls out the velvet bag she stowed there this morning. She received it back from the smith just yesterday and could not restrain her relief that it had been finished before her wedding night, so she might give it at just such a moment.

Siril loosens the little drawstring and draws the hairpin free. It is simple – Laerwen knew she would want nothing too ostentatious – but finely-wrought of silver, with a pattern of tiny emeralds weaving the shape of a vine – just like the sort Cuindis promised Laerwen she and Siril could grow to be together.

Siril’s smile is the soft peek of a blackberry blossom. She fingers the pattern, and Laerwen can nearly see her remembering the words herself, just as Laerwen relayed them. “It is beautiful,” she whispers. “I love it.”

“And I love you,” Laerwen says, and reaches out to draw her into another kiss.

When they draw apart this time, Siril looks down at where the pin has etched its imprint into her fingers. “Thank you, _meleth_,” she says. “But I am so sorry – I have nothing for you.”

Laerwen lets her hand trail from Siril’s neck to the fastening at her collarbone. “But you do,” she whispers. “The greatest gift I could possibly imagine.”

Siril’s concerned look softens into a slow, promising smile, and she brings the hairpin to her lips. “I will treasure it,” she says. “And I would ask you to put it in my hair immediately – but I think perhaps that would serve little purpose.”

She reaches up to place the pin on the edge of a low table, and then turns back to Laerwen. “Now,” she says. “What were you saying about a gift?”

Laerwen winds both her arms around Siril’s neck and brings her face so close that their noses nearly brush. Her eyes slant down to Siril’s lips, curved up in a smile that must surely be mirrored exactly on Laerwen’s own face. “I have forgotten entirely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: with the end of this chapter, we are departing from the Land of Fluff and things are about to go down! (things that aren't the two of them, I mean.)  
(sorry)


	16. Part I, Chapter 15

On the morning after his daughter’s wedding, Thranduil rises early.

Cuindis, ever the light sleeper, blinks into wakefulness as soon as he stirs, but he shakes his head at her: _return to your dreams._ She seems to decide it is not worth it to question him and slides back into reverie, but he knows he will have to answer to her later – once he has some answers of his own.

He dresses quickly and strides off down the hall.

Laerwen is in the larch bower still; Thranduil knows enough of weddings to know that she will not return to them this morning – perhaps not even this afternoon. And then after there will be the arrangements to be made, Siril’s things fetched from her family’s home and removed to Laerwen’s chambers. Thranduil remembers her family – his one brief introduction, mere days before the wedding – and shakes his head. So much the better.

The study door is unlatched slightly; Thranduil pushes it open without knocking. No one else will be expected – not when he was invited here.

His father is hunched over a cedar table spread entirely with maps and letters, and Thranduil’s heart leaks into his stomach. They have discussed this only in theoretical terms; clearly, the danger has progressed.

“You have decided, then?” he says, with no other introduction of his presence.

Oropher looks up, and Thranduil wonders if he has slept at all, or if he came directly here from the revels. “I have decided nothing yet about our actions,” he says. “The menace creeps yet; nothing has been declared. But I have reached a decision on the other matter.”

Thranduil takes a deep breath, hoping it will take up the space in his chest and stomach and halt the dripping dread. “A soldier, then?” he says.

Oropher nods. “With Dravaor’s unit, I think. From what I have heard from Nimloth – and what I have witnessed myself – I think she will fit best there.”

Thranduil swallows. “Very well.”

“I understand your reluctance,” Oropher says. “Do not think I lack sympathy for parents who send their children into battle.” His eyes blaze, and Thranduil blinks. It has been so many years since they behaved like a father and son that it is easy to forget, sometimes, that there is a reason he is younger, a reason he listens to Oropher’s counsel not merely because it comes from his commanding king. Since – since Doriath, perhaps, they have been partners and comrades, separated by a blood generation rather than any true difference in age and wisdom –

Since Doriath. Thranduil thinks about his wife and daughter, and then he looks back at his father.

Yes, he supposes Oropher does understand.

“I know,” he says, his voice hoarser than he intended. “You ask only what is necessary.” He takes another deep breath and bows to his king – to his father. “When she returns. I will tell her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END OF PART I.


	17. Part II: Becoming, Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is where the "probably incorrect Silmarillion lore" tag starts to apply. We are getting to one of the (very rare) parts the Greenwood has to play in all that, and the lore just won't stand still long enough for me to pin down a consistent narrative. So this is my attempt to imagine the amount that the people of the Greenwood might know about Sauron and all the other things, the extent of the role they might have played, and how it might feel to be involved. It's... a lot, and I've done my best.

Something is changing.

Everyone in the forest can feel it, though few speak of it aloud, held silent by some unspoken agreement. A wrongness in the very air, like a cold breath on the backs of their necks – something lingering not within their borders, but perhaps just outside. A wrongness in all the _world_.

And even could she not sense it for herself, Siril is in a privileged position to see that something is wrong with every evening that Laerwen comes home later and later.

Some hundred years have passed since the princess was first assigned duty with Dravaor’s patrol, and she has not risen through the ranks only because no one above her has resigned. She has earned the respect previously given to her only out of obligation; Siril can see it in the looks that other soldiers exchange when they pass her in the forest or the palace, in the approving nods given to Siril herself when Laerwen is not looking.

And of course, in the way Laerwen now spends all her evenings closeted in council with Oropher and Thranduil – and their finest advisors.

There is a reason Laerwen was assigned duty as a soldier; there is a reason her patrol has been sent out so often of late. There is a reason she has come to bed so late in the evenings, so worn in body and spirit.

Siril can guess, but she does not ask. She is not invited to the secret meetings and in truth has no desire to attend; she might be wife to one, but she is no princess and no warrior. If something is coming, Siril will support those who must fight, but she will do so herself only in the direst of situations.

Instead she waits at home for Laerwen, pulls her gently into their chambers when she stumbles down the hall later and later each night, and does not ask about the edge behind her eyes.

Until tonight.

Tonight Laerwen’s footsteps are lighter and less steady than usual; erring and uneven. Siril opens the door and peeks out, to see Laerwen wandering dazedly towards her; her path taking her first towards one wall, then the other; her eyes unfocused—but not from reverie. She looks as though she does not know the world in which she walks – and Siril darts into the hallway to catch her shoulders, guide her into their chambers, and shut the door to the rest of the world.

Now it is only they two, alone and sheltered from anything waiting for them outside, and only now does Laerwen blink and seem to wake from her daze. She tugs free of Siril’s grasp, stumbles to a chair, and sinks into it; her head drops to rest on her arms, and she suddenly looks tired and old.

“Laerwen?” says Siril softly. “_Melethril?_”

She goes to Laerwen; rests her hands on her shoulders, kneading with gentle pressure, as though her wife is a loaf of bread or a shy bloom who only needs the right touch to reveal her secrets. But it seems to work, for after a moment of this Laerwen raises her head again, turns exhausted and fearful eyes onto Siril.

“I may tell you at last,” she says in a whisper. “It will be revealed to the realm tomorrow and must no longer be kept behind closed chamber doors.” She lays her hands flat on the table, and Siril can barely make out the tremor in them. “I thank you for your patience at being excluded; it pained me not to speak of it to you, but I hardly understood myself, and” –

“Consider it forgotten,” Siril whispers. “I am no war strategist, and I have never wished to be one; it is not an exclusion I resent. Please, my love, tell me now what is wrong.”

“Very well.” Laerwen draws a deep breath, and Siril finds another chair for herself, so they will be at eye level when Laerwen gives her the news. “It is a story that begins long before our births, and I do not know all the history of it. My grandfather has told me snatches of it from time to time, but each time he stressed that the enemy of whom he spoke was created and fought by our kindred from afar, who name themselves ‘High’ and do not deign to trouble themselves with our kind.”

Her voice shifts as she speaks, the cadence a rough imitation of Oropher’s voice, and Siril smothers a smile at the slight peek of tease beneath Laerwen’s serious demeanor. “It was all very complex, and I know he told me only a part – leaving out the hundreds of names and deeds, all of which seemed to blend together to me. He spoke of divine evil taking form on Middle-earth, of battles and sacrifices, of great rewards – but mostly of a great enemy to all of elven-kind, one who strove to bring all the world under his domain. He always assured me that these stories were of others, that the risks and rewards were for the other elves to reap, that they ought to strive with the trouble they created. That we were to remain apart from all of it.”

“Until now,” Siril finishes for her. Evil taking form on Middle-earth – a great enemy – what else can this creeping menace be that even she can feel, though it is not her history?

Laerwen nods. “Until now. We are to speak his name as little as possible, for evidently his gaze is powerful – but I will dare it this once, for you ought to know it.” She lowers her voice. “_Sauron_, he is called in our tongue, and he dwells to the east, in a fortress he has created in the land of Mordor.”

Siril tries not to shiver at the name – she has not heard it before, but she can feel the fear with which it has been imbued. “You have been told a great deal about him, then,” she says, and now a real dread descends upon her – a fear of something concrete, something to come – and soon.

“I have,” says Laerwen. “I see that you can sense what I am about to say, but I must say it anyway. The High King of the Noldor” – again Oropher’s tones of disdain – “has decided it is time to amass a force to stand against him once and for all, to march on his fortress and end his threat.”

“And the Greenwood has decided to stand with them.” Siril’s ears go numb to the sound of her own voice; she finds the wherewithal to reach out and take Laerwen’s hands in hers – fearing and knowing what will be said next.

“My grandfather will lead the force,” says Laerwen, “with as many soldiers as can follow. My father will accompany him as his lieutenant, and I will be under his command.”

Siril cannot speak at first – somewhere inside, she knew this news would come, but still it washes over her like icy water, leaving her numb. “Your mother?” she manages at last.

“She will stay,” Laerwen says. “Not all may leave the forest, after all, and it would be even more shameful if our family left it behind unguarded. She is best suited to the task anyway; she is a wise leader and less a warrior than the three of us.” Laerwen’s eyes turn unerringly onto Siril’s – grey and clouded like a stormy sky, yet still they are sharp enough to see directly through to her heart. “And on that note, I have a request to make of you, my love,” she continues. “Please understand that I ask only, and do not demand; if your heart tells you to do otherwise, I will not gainsay you—”

Siril cannot allow her to finish, not when she knows the words that are to come. “You would have me stay as well,” she says, and the words seem to pull everything else out of her with them, leaving her hollow. “Wait at home when you venture off to war.”

Laerwen nods, her hair showering over her shoulders like the spill of sunshine between the tangled boughs of trees. “This is my place: behind my father; at the head of our people. War is an art I know, if not yet well, and I cannot dishonor the sacrifices of our people by refusing to ride beside them. And I do not ask you to stay behind out of cowardice; I know no one to whom that word is less suited” – she draws one hand out of their tight clasp to lay it on Siril’s heart, her touch unerring though her eyes do not stray. “But I know that you are not a fighter in your heart; you would miss the forest and it would pine in your absence.”

Siril thinks. She knows there is truth in Laerwen’s words – she can wield a bow only insofar as she can hunt her share of the food; she does not enjoy the act of killing and has studied it no further than she must. And she _would_ miss her home, it is true. But there is a further truth, one that descends upon her in a slow trickle and then in a sudden flood of understanding.

“You would fear for me,” she says, her voice cracking. “If I were at your side.”

Laerwen does not pretend surprise or ignorance. Yet again, without releasing Siril’s gaze from their long, speechless contact, she nods.

Siril breathes – one silent, cold inhale. Lets the honesty settle into her belly with her breath, and then releases it – and releases with it anger, reluctance, any misdirected pride. Tests the new shape of the truth – the disappointment and the acceptance, the terror and the relief.

“Very well,” she says. “I will stay.”

A shudder seizes Laerwen’s body, and only now is Siril released from the hold of her great eyes; Laerwen’s slender form seems to fold and crumple, and she slides out of her chair and onto her knees. At first Siril fears for a wild moment that Laerwen has fainted, but then she lays her head in Siril’s lap and lets out a shaking breath.

“Thank you,” she whispers, “Siril, _melethril_, my heart, thank you.”

Siril strokes the golden hair pooling between her thighs, brushes it back to expose the side of Laerwen’s face. “It pains me not to be at your side,” she says, “but you are right in all you say. And I would not endanger you with my presence, not if it will be more a burden than an aid.”

“You would never be a burden,” says Laerwen sharply – then relaxes. “But your skills will be better used here, and if we fail, it will only be a matter of time before the Greenwood needs defenders of its own. You will be a more dangerous fighter here among the trees that love and shelter you than on the open plains of” – she shudders, and then falls silent.

Siril’s hands continue to wander through the sunshine silk of Laerwen’s hair, pushing it aside until she can trace the delicate line of her ear beneath it. “When will you leave?” she says.

“We leave – ah-h – in some weeks’ time,” Laerwen twitches beneath Siril’s touch, but tries valiantly to keep talking – and Siril pretends she does not notice her love’s distraction, even as she caresses the delicate tip of Laerwen’s ear. “As soon as – oh – we have determined the size and contents of our – force – you!” She squirms, and gives a breathy laugh for the first time in days. “You – you tormenter!”

“Would you punish me for it?” Siril asks, raising her eyebrows in false challenge, wishing for – well, she wishes for many things in this moment, but as she can have no more than this, she wishes only to see the fear and weariness fall away from Laerwen’s face, at least for now.

And her wish is granted; Laerwen’s reluctant laugh softens at last into a true smile – slow and sweet and sad. “Nay,” she says, and rises from her knees to climb fully into Siril’s lap, cupping her face like she would the tenderest early spring flower. “I would cherish you for it, and imprint the memory of all your body onto all of mine, until it will hardly matter that you are not by my side.”

With that she kisses Siril – slow and long and yet somehow hungry, as though Siril is a feast to be not devoured, but savored. Siril moans, opens her mouth to it, and tilts her head back for easier access, the better to feed this palpable hunger. Laerwen bears down on her, bending her back over the low back-rest on her chair; her legs clamp around Siril’s thighs and her hips begin to move in slow circles, building heat between them –

And suddenly there is a wood-scrape; the world lurches beneath Siril and turns upside down and Laerwen’s weight vanishes from her lap; the support beneath and behind her disappears. Her eyes snap open to the ceiling instead of Laerwen’s face; she hears the clatter of the upended chair hitting the floor beneath her – but she does not fall with it. Hands turn firm at her back, and Laerwen is there, holding her in an absurdly low dip like a fumbled dance; her hair spills forward over her face in a waterfall of gold and at long last she is laughing –

Siril does not know how she managed it, but she must have sprung free of their tangle with lightning reflexes, and now she holds Siril firm even in such an awkward position, keeping her from tumbling to the floor. Laerwen is slender, but much, much stronger than she appears: Siril feels that strength now in the safety of her hold, especially as Laerwen tugs her upright to cradle her in a more secure embrace. She leans into the power in her wife’s arms, the speed and grace in her movements – that wife who will soon be riding to war without her – and she finds, abruptly, that she does not want to be cherished.

She wrenches herself upright and pulls Laerwen along with her, stumbling backwards until her back thuds against the stone wall of their greeting chamber, solid and reassuring in a world that has never felt larger or more threatening. She seizes the back of Laerwen’s head and drags her into a kiss, waiting for – _ah, yes_ – Laerwen to push into her, to grind her between the wall and her own body, to make her feel, for this moment, as though no uncertainty surrounds them and nothing in the world can ever come between them.

The kiss turns into a different sort of hunger, that voracious, devouring need for satiation, and when they finally break apart, both are panting, hips moving almost unstoppably against one another, heat building between them everywhere they touch.

“Take me to bed,” Siril whispers into the space between their mouths. “Please.”


	18. Part II, Chapter 2

A mess of moth wings flap in Laerwen’s stomach, churning her insides into mush. The pre-dawn air is cool against her skin, but it is not the cold clamminess of it so much as what it means that makes her shiver, raises hairs at the back of her neck.

The Greenwood’s army has never been the disciplined rows and ranks of which Laerwen has read in legend and history; her own patrols always began with chattering and giggling, fading into silence only when they were approaching the borders, when stealth was needed. But now the warriors wait to move out in a silence not only commanded by the solemn presence of their king and prince standing at their head. For this is no routine patrol, but war – true war – fought far beyond their borders.

They are not all mounted; there are not enough horses for all their soldiers, and most of them are unaccustomed to fighting on horseback. But Oropher and Thranduil ride, along with a small unit of cavalry, and a few other horses carry packs.

Laerwen will go on foot, with the unit in which she has served for the last hundred years. She will be among those who have become her accustomed companions, and with this arrangement she will not usurp the place of any who has served for longer and with greater distinction than she. But all the same, the space at her father’s side looks empty, and for a moment she yearns to cling to him, to hide beneath the shadow of his arm and let him protect her.

Instead she turns to Siril and lets out a long breath.

“Time?” says Siril softly.

“Time.”

Time to go, time to put duty before desire, time to part. Laerwen looks at her wife’s face for a long, long time – she does not need to memorize it; she knows her memory will capture it perfectly. But still, the thought of having only memory to sustain her, only a reflection of the old, rather than her presence on the path they promised so long ago to walk together –

Around her, other new arrivals are farewelling their families with long embraces, with tears, with whispered promises that everyone around them can hear. Laerwen has done all these things already: has embraced her mother, who now stands still and steady across from Thranduil; has promised along with her father that they will care for themselves, that they will return safely. And she and Siril said their true farewells last night, exchanged touches and promises that ought to carry them through their parting today.

Still, she finds it impossible to say goodbye.

She lifts a hand at last to Siril’s cheek. “I love you,” she says.

“And I you.” Siril touches the back of her wrist. “Come back.”

_If I can._ “I will.” She hesitates, looking at Siril’s warm, dark eyes; her full, soft mouth; her round, generous body. “And you – bloom.”

She cannot think of a better way to phrase it, but Siril seems to understand. She gives Laerwen a flash of her secret smile, takes Laerwen’s hand from her face and brushes her lips over her knuckles. Then she drops it and steps back.

Laerwen watches her go to join Cuindis, watches the two of them stand together – stewards of this forest that the rest of their family is leaving behind – and she prays that it will not be the last time she sees them.

And then she goes to join her own unit – and at a word from Oropher, they move out.

* * *

They meet up with the forces of Lothlórien in the bounds of unclaimed forest between their kingdoms: their king, Amdir, has brought a force somewhat less sizable, but respectable enough. He and Oropher exchange greetings; he bows over Laerwen’s hand in a greeting that she knows is respectful but that chafes at her anyway. She is not a child princess to be patronized; she is a soldier, an apprentice, a –

No.

She does not know what she is doing here.

* * *

Laerwen has never been this far out before.

She has patrolled, with her unit, as far out as the boundaries of the kingdom – but even those bounds lead only to more forest, the unclaimed space free for those of other realms to travel without threat. She does not fear the wilds within the forest, but now – now, as the tree cover grows thinner, as the breeze cools, uncushioned by protective canopy and leaves –

Laerwen shivers, not from the cold but from the vastness of open space looming before her. She has seen the sky before, but only ever in thin patches between interlacing tree branches. Now – now they draw nearer to the edge of the trees and it _opens up_ before her, wide and blue-grey and thick with clouds –

Her pace slows; she feels she is wading through water up to her waist, but she cannot make her legs move any more quickly. But around her, thank goodness, the others are slowing as well, gazing around with a mixture of awe and wonder and fear and horror and –

A hand slips into hers. Her head snaps around, but it is only Ranion, one of the few near her own age in their unit. Of course – he too has never seen this before; indeed, Laerwen wonders how many of them in all their army have been outside the protection of the forest. The very oldest, perhaps, and those who came along with her family when they first came to the Greenwood, but in all Laerwen’s lifetime, precious few of their people have had a reason to leave the woods.

“Magnificent, is it not?”

Laerwen looks up: Dravaor, her commander and one of her father’s friends, stands over them, hir eyes faraway. “_Yéni_, it has been, since I have seen the sky laid out thus . . .”

“It feels so . . . open.” Ranion grips Laerwen’s hand tighter, and she returns the pressure, glad to have something to hold.

Dravaor looks down at last, hir eyes bleak. “Prepare yourselves,” ze says. “It will only grow worse.”

* * *

During the days, Laerwen is a soldier like the rest: obeying Dravaor’s commands, carrying her share of the rations and taking her turns at latrine duty along with the rest, laughing with Ranion and Meluiwen to fill the gaping expanse of the sky above them, of the vastness of their task. But at night she is a princess, and she adjourns to her grandfather’s tent to listen to the reports of the various generals – and their plans.

“Our archers will always be our greatest strength,” argues Maeglad now. “Let the other armies claim the ‘glory’ of close combat if they will; we do this not for accolades but for our kingdom. If we may fight best from a distance” –

“But our archers are not accustomed to avoiding the arrows of their foes,” says Dravaor. “I do not dispute the talent of your warriors, but you have led few patrols outside of the forest. Do you not see the way they startle in the open air?” Ze does not look at Laerwen, but she tenses anyway, cursing her light skin as her cheeks heat. “We do our archers a disservice to prioritize them alone; we will need fighters in close combat as well.”

“All this arguing is worth nothing until we have arrived,” counters Nimloth. “We may exercise our strategic thoughts now if we wish, but it will do nothing for our chances until we see how the others are ranged, and where we may best fit our forces.”

“It matters not!”

Oropher has said nothing yet beyond the welcome; now he sits forward, majesty radiating in his voice. “What do we care what the Noldor and the men will do? It is as Maeglad said; we come here for our kingdom, not for them. Where have they been when we needed them; what use have they had for thoughts of our people until they needed more bodies to send against an enemy _they_ created?”

Laerwen looks around surreptitiously – she knows it is not her place to react, for she is too young and knows too little; she is here only to learn – but all Oropher’s advisors are nodding along. Is it merely because he is king? She wonders it, but no – in the faces of the Sindarin and Silvan elves alike is the same distaste that colors Oropher’s voice.

“When the time comes,” Oropher continues, “we may look at the other armies to see what they have planned, but we are not theirs to command. When the time comes, it matters not what they ask of us – they have asked already enough. We will plan alone, and if we have a chance to accomplish our goal, we will strike as we can – our own kingdom, beholden to no other.”

It is the first time Laerwen has truly witnessed such a bold declaration, and she almost expects to hear someone speak up – but no one does. Instead, all around her, heads nod in agreement.

* * *

As they travel, the air grows drier and hotter; the colors fade from green to brown. It is the change in the weather, Dravaor explains to their unit, edgier than ever as the trees along the road dwindle to shrubs and then to nothing, as they watch the grasses appear to wither and die before their eyes the farther southeast they travel. But Laerwen can see in hir eyes that it is more than merely that – that the death taking these plants is not only natural. And she can feel it, too, the farther they travel – the deadness in the air, the tang like metal in the back of her mouth.

And she understands that they are right to fight this. That whatever happens, this fading will not stay contained; it will spread farther and farther until it touches their forest, until it withers their trees and contaminates their land.

She thinks of Siril – she has tried so hard not to think of Siril, for fear of falling prey to the tide of loneliness that threatens to rush over her mind and steal her senses – but now she imagines her wife in her garden, plants dying around her and rich soil crumbling to dust in her hands – thinks of the way Siril’s heart would wither along with the forest until there was nothing left of her, either.

Whatever happens, whomever they follow, they are right to come here – and this evil is one she will fight until there is nothing left.

* * *

“There are so many of them,” whispers Iallath.

Laerwen can only nod, gazing ahead at the vast spread of assembled armies. Elves, men – even, she thinks, a small force of dwarves; what else can they be? They will not even arrive for at least another day, but the plains are so flat and the armies so many that they can see them already, swarming around, waiting – for the right moment?

She glances around – she does not wish to reveal her ignorance, though surely she is not the only one, but Iallath is from Lothlórien and has not known her all her life; somehow it is easier to ask. “Are those dwarves?” she whispers back. “The smaller ones?”

Iallath looks at her in surprise. “Have you not seen dwarves before?”

Laerwen flushes. “This is my first time outside the forest,” she confesses. She knows she is among the youngest here; Iallath is some two hundred years older. “And my grandfather – well. They have not been often welcome in our kingdom.”

Iallath nods. “I see.” Surely the stories of Doriath are well-known. “Yes, they are dwarves – we too have little contact, but they have visited us from time to time to sell weapons.” Ze turns away from Laerwen, hir face rotating back to the assembled forces. “So many,” ze repeats, almost dreamily.

“So many,” Laerwen echoes, but her own awe is quickly curdling into dread.

For if there are already so many, and yet still they have called to the Greenwood and to Lórien for aid – then surely that many is not enough.


	19. Part II, Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I haven't read the Silmarillion. Yes, I did try. Hopefully the information from the wikis hasn't failed me too terribly... but if you're expecting satisfying cameos from Silmarillion characters, you may be disappointed here. (Also yes, I did forget certain facts that are actually in the main texts about certain rulers' names. Sorry.)
> 
> ...Yes, bad things are coming.

Before they arrive, they are called to separate.

They began their long journey separated by rank and division, but over time they have melted together: archers with knife fighters, Greenwood with Lórien – but now Amdir and Oropher call them to order, and their leaders separate them out. For all that Oropher has spoken about not caring for the opinions of those they will be joining, Laerwen can see they wish to present a disciplined appearance. Out of defiance, she wonders – or an unvoiced desire for approval? Perhaps it is a bit of both.

She is called to the front; instead of walking with her patrol, she mounts a horse that has been used to carry rations and weapons. Again, it is for appearance only – and they approach with all the famed stealth of their kind, silent save only for the clopping of horses’ hooves on the hard, dead ground.

From a distance, Laerwen could see the empty space where they would make camp; now that they are closer it is harder to tell how the forces have been divided, but Oropher and Amdir have led them well. As they settle in – all the thousands of them – to a quiet, disciplined formation, leaders prepare to disperse to make their camps, but first they must announce themselves.

A small group comes to greet them – two elves, tall and glowing; two men; and a single dwarf. They walk abreast, no one ahead of any other, their faces grim, and Laerwen holds herself together with all the willpower she has learned, though her stomach squirms worse than before any test or demonstration. Perhaps because this is no practice exam – this is real.

“Welcome!” says the first elf – he is the tallest of the group; indeed, perhaps the tallest elf Laerwen has ever seen, and he seems to glow with some beyond-earthly power. This can only be Gil-galad, the one who, as Oropher says, “styles himself High King.” But for all Oropher’s distaste for him, Laerwen cannot entirely restrain her awe at the majesty he radiates. “Your Majesties Oropher, Amdir – it is long since I have had occasion to greet you in person.”

“Long indeed,” says Oropher stiffly. He dismounts his horse, and Thranduil, Amdir, and Laerwen follow suit – though she feels suddenly small on her own feet. “Greetings.” He does not bow.

Neither does Gil-galad; nor does the man – but the other elf and the dwarf incline their heads, and Thranduil and Laerwen follow suit. They are not kings, not equals, and they must show subordination though Laerwen sees the reluctance in the line of her father’s neck. They do not speak – that is for their rulers to do.

Laerwen feels the gazes of the elves and men traveling over her, heavy and intense on the crown of her inclined head, and she fights the urge to shift her weight. How can they not look at her, the only one who does not seem to belong here? She is hardly even a princess; she has hardly proven herself a warrior; she is only a child who ought to be back at home –

No. No, she is not. That is what they wish her to think, but she will not submit to it. She will not prove them right in their estimation. Did she not think, just days ago, that this was an evil she was meant to fight, one that she would give all herself to stop? It matters not what they may think of her: she is Laerwen; she is Thranduiliel, Sindarin and Silvan alike, and this is her war as much as it is theirs.

She straightens up slowly, squares her shoulders, and looks back at them.

“We are glad you have come,” says Gil-galad. “These are the other leaders of our forces – Lord Elrond of Rivendell, my lieutenant; King Isildur of Gondor; and Lord Ester son of Ander, the leader of the dwarves of Khazad-dûm and representative of King Durin himself.” Laerwen wonders if the dwarf too chafes under the leadership of an elf; her father’s lip curls in distaste as he meets Ester’s gaze, but the dwarf’s face is blank and shows no emotion. “We look forward to your presence in our evening councils, and hope to hear your advice and perspective.”

“We thank you for the welcome,” says Amdir. “I will consult with my advisors first, of course.”

“I need not,” says Oropher. “We are of one mind, and that is that we have no interest in your councils.” It is blatant rudeness, but Laerwen tingles still from the condensed gazes of Elrond and Gil-galad, from the bitter feeling that she has been judged unworthy, and she understands her grandfather’s defiance perfectly. “Let me be perfectly clear with you, Your Lordships: we have come to fight a shared enemy, but we have not come to fight for you.”

Lord Elrond frowns. “Your Majesty,” he says, “as you say we fight against a shared enemy, it is foolishness not to use all our forces to ensure that enemy’s downfall. You ought to” –

“It is as you wish, of course,” says Gil-galad, speaking over Elrond. “You will govern your people as you see fit. But should you change your minds and wish to consider sense, our councils will be open to you.”

There are no further pleasantries; the four who have come to greet them turn at a sign from Gil-galad and walk away.

Laerwen dares a glance up at her father, to see that he is frowning. “Adar,” he says, but Oropher turns his head to the side, faster than a whip.

“No,” he says. “They want nothing more from us than our compliance; they did nothing for us when our home was attacked and will do nothing for us now. We have always been forced to stand alone – so alone we shall stand here.” He looks at Amdir and inclines his head. “You are, of course, free to take their offer, should you wish it.”

“I spoke the truth,” says Amdir. “I must consult with my advisors. But I understand your sentiments, King Oropher, and you will not stand alone.”

“Good.” Oropher turns his head to gaze across the planes and marshes – at the gates Laerwen can only just see, looming far in the distance. “These sluggards have dallied here long enough. They have spent so long in their exalted councils that they have forgotten how to act when action is needed.” His jaw is set, hard as diamond. “I am determined that our people, at least, will not wait so long.”

* * *

They will attack in two days’ time.

Hardly have they settled in, hardly have they settled their horses and made their camp and distributed their rations – and they will attack. The Enemy has been focused for too long on the gathering siege, on the foes outside his gates, Oropher explains. He will think that the increase in numbers is merely to swell the other armies. He will not count on an early strike, a swift onslaught. He will not be prepared for the surprise.

Two days’ time.

Those black gates – they seem so distant, from this far away, and yet they sear themselves across Laerwen’s vision, blazing like flame against the black backs of her eyelids. They look so small, and it is easy to take heart when her grandfather addresses their forces so: such determination in his voice, such ferocity in his spirit. He is larger than life against the small forms of those gates – and yet – and yet –

And yet those gates burn against Laerwen’s eyelids with a persistence that sinks into her stomach and churns it into slush, with a promise: _it cannot be that easy_.

* * *

It is the night before they are set to march, and Laerwen cannot find peace to rest.

She ought to take her reverie while she can; she will be better for it when they attack in the morning, but her mind will not settle into the peaceful pattern of thoughts that allows her to sink into dreams; little discomforts keep distracting her. A twig beneath her grinds into her back; when she moves, her hip feels crushed beneath her weight, though she has never had trouble resting on the ground or in this position before.

They have sent a messenger home already to deliver the news of their arrival and their intentions – and many of the soldiers have sent letters as well, to deliver to family members. Laerwen has written to her mother and to Siril, but the letters felt so impersonal and bland. She could not imagine what to say to them – how to prepare for the possibility of survival or death?

She could die tomorrow.

It is a thought she has never had to think before – not truly. She has fought in skirmishes; she has been well trained, but – but she has never known battle on the scale that tomorrow will bring, and it is a thought she cannot even prepare to think.

She is not fearful, not exactly. She has no desire to run. She still knows that this is where she is meant to be – and even were she not surrounded by hundreds of other warriors all here for their kingdom, even if she did not know that it is her duty to fight for them – to die for them if needed – she still has that image in her mind, of her forest withering to nothing, of Siril’s broken heart as all that grows around her falls to the taint that spreads around all the world. She is not afraid – how can she be afraid, when she cannot even comprehend the vastness of what there is to fear?

The tent is too warm; she squirms out of her bedroll and slips outside.

Dravaor is on guard outside her tent; ze turns when Laerwen approaches.

“Unable to rest?”

Laerwen flushes. “No.” Ze must be used to it by now; much of their unit is young and untested, but still her toes curl inside her boots, her chin dipping as she confesses her weakness.

But to her surprise, Dravaor merely nods. “Nor can I.”

Laerwen’s head snaps up. “No?”

Ze smiles at her, a little sadly. “Thousands of years, Laerwen, and I have never been able to find reverie on the night before a battle. I know those who can, but that has never been for me.”

As though hir words have given her permission to confess it all, she takes a deep breath. “I am afraid,” she murmurs.

“We are all of us afraid,” ze says. “Be not ashamed of your fear. The might we strive against is greater than any of us have faced before – and we will do all we can before it, but there is no shame in unrest.”

She nods, gulps. “What if we do not return?” she whispers.

“Do not think that way,” ze says, gently but firmly. “It is those thoughts that make the finest warriors flee the battle. Your fear does you credit, but only if you can carry on despite it. Have you sent letters home with the messenger?”

She nods.

“Then you have done all you can.” Dravaor rests a hand on her shoulder. “Impractical it might be, but in times like this, we must simply believe we will return. In defiance of all likelihood, in spite of all fear. Feel the fear, the hesitation – and believe anyway.”

“You make it sound so easy.” She tries to suppress the note of bitterness in her voice.

“It is the hardest thing in the world.” Hir hand tightens on her shoulder. “But it is all we can do.”

Laerwen does not respond, and Dravaor lapses into silence as well. But they stand there together for a long time, watching the night sky until it fades into the grey of pre-dawn, feeling the chill air against their skin and the clamminess of dew – and then watching the sun make its tentative advance over the horizon.

Time to get ready.

It is not until she shakes herself into motion at the first fingers of sunrise that she realizes that she found some semblance of reverie after all.

* * *

Afterwards, Laerwen will remember little of the battle.

She experiences it in flashes: the screech of her sword against metal armor and then the horrifying, unexpected softness beneath the weak spots; the crunch of bone against the point, and then the scream that slices through her spirit just as surely as her sword has just sliced through flesh; the smell and spray of blood that stains her face.

She will remember the mud beneath her feet, the slurping suck as she tugs her feet free of it, one of her boots lost beneath forever. She will remember the sight of the soldiers in the distance floundering up to their waists, and the sight of those cut down sinking beneath the surface. She will remember how that first scream fades into a chorus of many, of different pitches and timbres – but the cry of the second man she kills pierces her just the same as the first.

She will remember the screams ahead, the sickening plunge in her stomach as she realizes that something horrible has happened; she will remember the cry of “Adar!” and the way she wonders at first if it has come from her own throat, before she recognizes the voice of her own father instead –

And she will remember the flash of pain – sharp and then dull – against her temple – and that is the last memory she has.


	20. Part II, Chapter 4

The messenger comes a few months after the soldiers have departed. The kingdom is too quiet, with so many of its people gone, and Siril’s life too quiet – as she imagines so many are these days – with her wife absent. She and Cuindis spend much time together in the groves behind the palace, but they speak little, letting the quiet murmurs of the forest speak for them instead.

So when the messenger arrives, the flurry of activity is a sharp contrast to their usual quiet lassitude.

The messenger comes to the palace trailing a chain of other elves, family members of soldiers who wish to know what has become of them. She has letters to deliver, she promises, but first she must report to the princess. And she bows to Cuindis, waiting for permission to give her message.

“Thank you,” Cuindis says. “Please tell us now the news you have been sent to bring.”

“It is a short message,” she says, “though I bear letters for many of you from spouses and relatives. I come merely to report that the Greenwood’s forces have arrived without incident at the land of Mordor and joined the other assembled armies in their siege. His Majesty Oropher has announced his intention to strike as soon as possible, and he hopes that the next messenger will come bearing good news.”

Siril glances around. The faces of the listeners reveal an assortment of emotions: confidence, unease, hope, fear. But Cuindis – who has so often been open with her emotions – only looks at the messenger, and her face reveals nothing.

“Thank you so much for bringing the message,” she says at last. “Please take what rest and refreshment you need in the palace while we prepare responses for you to carry back.”

* * *

Siril does not know enough about battle to interpret the messenger’s words. She knows not whether Oropher’s intent to strike speaks well for their chances, or poorly – and Laerwen’s letter is distressingly inscrutable.

_Siril nîn,_

_I miss you._

_Certainly you are unsurprised at that sentiment. But I would add that while it pains me to be distant from you, my greatest joy is the thought of you at your garden, in our forest, coaxing life into bloom even as I prepare myself to deal as much death as I can._

_It is strange, is it not, that the thought of you gives me strength to fight?_

_You are distant from me, and I am glad you are there rather than here – but still I feel you are at my side, and that I am stronger for your presence in my heart._

_Whatever comes of this battle, this war, know that I love you – that I will always remain,_

_Your_

_Laerwen_

Siril settles in late that night, as always. She finds reasons to delay her night’s rest—puttering around the house; cleaning odds and ends; drinking just one more cup of tea—all to hold off that moment of retiring to an empty bed and lying alone with only thought and memory to comfort her. But tonight, she has not even made it so far when she hears the scream.

It comes from the chambers all the way down the hall—the prince and princess’s chambers—and she knows before the thought has even resolved in her mind that it is Cuindis.

Leaving her brewing tea on the counter, Siril runs.

Her mother-in-law’s chambers are not empty; servants from nearby rooms were drawn as well by the cry, and guards already bar the door to the chambers. But they know Siril, and they let her pass without a word.

When she enters the bedroom, Cuindis is sitting on the edge of her bed, her eyes wide and ringed with shadows, her dressing gown billowing around her like an indecisive ghost – but her face is impatient. “Go, go, go,” she says, waving the servants out of the room, “I am well enough; I want for nothing; go back to your posts. Siril, stay,” she adds, as Siril would let herself be waved away as well. “I would speak to you.”

Siril hesitates, but the resolve in Cuindis’s eyes decides her; she closes the door behind the servants and comes when Cuindis beckons her to sit on the bed beside her. “What is it, second-mother?” she asks, laying a hand over Cuindis’s own where it has fisted in her covers. “What troubles you this night?”

“Dreams,” says Cuindis, her voice hollow and haunted, “and ill fortune.” She looks straight at Siril, her eyes dark and empty as the deepest pits of the void, and her voice holds nothing but stark truth when she says, “Something terrible is going to happen.”

“How do you know?” Siril can only whisper; the rest of her voice seems to have deserted her. The Silvan elves are not like those favored by the Valar; they have no strain of true-sight in any of their lines, but Cuindis has an insight keener than a blade, one that Siril recognizes in Laerwen—indeed, in all their family.

“I know Oropher.” And perhaps it is as simple as that. Cuindis shivers, and Siril rises; hastens across the room to fetch a blanket and drape it over her shoulders, hoping that its warmth and weight will bring comfort to her spirit. “I need no divine voice to speak to my dreams to know it is true. Do you know why our people came to accept him as our lord, Siril?”

“I . . . I do not.” Siril has always known, of course, that Cuindis is fully Silvan like herself; indeed, it is the source of their connection over the last days. But they have not spoken of it this way – not without their Sindarin counterparts, or Laerwen, who bears both bloodlines.

Cuindis sighs. “It was an alliance of convenience, at first. Elves all over Middle-Earth were seeking new homes, new places to establish themselves, and Oropher and Thranduil’s home had just been destroyed. They were the few survivors of the destruction of Doriath, as you know.” Siril nods – that much is known to all. “But they were not the only ones seeking holdings in Middle-earth, and the elves of this forest knew it was only a matter of time before someone came to claim our land and call us subjects. When Oropher and Thranduil and their few Sindarin companions came seeking a place to live, we struck a deal with them. It was meant to be something of a business arrangement: we would give them a home, and they would lend us ‘authenticity’ among the other elves who have always fancied themselves greater than us.” She smiles faintly. “We only wanted to be left alone, at first. But they wanted so badly to belong, and then Thranduil and I met, and, well.” Her voice drifts off, her eyes dreamy, and Siril remembers abruptly that she is not the only one missing a spouse.

“And we became what we are,” she finishes for Cuindis. “Intermingled.”

“Indeed.” Cuindis turns to face Siril once more, her eyes sharp. “We knew at first that Oropher and Thranduil would not allow any other elves to take over our land once they had made their home here. Indeed, we were brought together by a common distaste for the elves who style themselves ‘High’ – the very elves our forces have now gone to aid. But from what I am told of the enemy they face, he will only fall to combined forces. And I worry . . .”

“You worry that they will not be willing to bend,” Siril whispers. “That they will strike alone.”

“Precisely,” murmurs Cuindis. “Do you know, Oropher has never been especially fond of me? Not because I am Silvan, but because he does not think I am decisive enough. What he does not understand is that Thranduil needs tempering – and he does as well, though he refuses to see it.” No one speaks of Oropher’s wife; the little Siril knows of her is that she was killed in the sack of Doriath, long ago. She wonders if Cuindis knows more about her from her husband; if she thinks even now of the mother-in-law she has never met. “He will make decisions without asking for advice, without waiting for aid, and” –

“And he makes decisions not within the safety of the kingdom,” Siril finishes.

“No. And he will gamble with the lives of our people and our family.”

Siril shivers, suddenly wishing for a blanket of her own. “Second-mother,” she says, “Take no offense at this statement, but I hope you are wrong.”

“I know,” says Cuindis. “As do I.”

* * *

After that first message, the activity in the kingdom rises. Some wish to anticipate the best; others are fearful; others are merely agitated. The palace is busier, and Cuindis finds herself called upon to resolve disputes or soothe fretful souls – tasks she completes with a self-assurance that leaves Siril awed. And so they are busier than they were before when the second message comes – only a few days after the first.

The next messenger comes, like the first, trailing a gaggle of elves, but now the mood is one much more of fear – and Siril can see why. The look on the messenger’s face is grim, and the news – it can only be the worst kind.

They all flock into the palace, the message coming first to them, the messenger’s face set in a determined line, and Siril’s stomach twists _hard_.

“What is it?” asks Cuindis, looking down from her seat, regal as Siril has seen her so often of late, as she wishes she needed not. “What ill news sweeps in on the east wind?”

“Forgive me my haste,” stammers the messenger, bowing and folding to hir knees before Cuindis. “But this message ought to be delivered first to the Queen.”

The indrawn breath echoes throughout the chamber, and Siril does not know whence it came – for it does not seem Cuindis has inhaled at all. She sits there, staring ahead with a blank expression – and so it is one of the following elves who speaks.

“The Queen?”

“Yes.” The messenger is shaking; hir lips tremble as ze speaks. “There is no kind way to deliver this message, so I must simply speak what I know. We were – there was – The army of the Greenwood led the first charge at Dagorlad, and were cut off from the rest. Losses were” – Ze swallows. “Heavy. His Majesty Oropher has fallen, as have many others; the succession and leadership has passed to his Majesty Thranduil, who will lead our people henceforth” –

“And the princess?”

The words are out of Siril’s mouth before she realizes she was the one to speak them; all eyes turn to her, but she will not be silent, not now, not when the world has tilted sideways around her and her king is dead and her mother-in-law is queen and the words “many others” still ring in her ears –

“She lives,” ze says. “The title of heir passes to her as King Thranduil takes his throne; doubtless there will be a ceremony when” –

Ze stops. _If they return_, Siril hears, and she bites on the soft inside of her lip until her mouth tastes metallic with almost-blood. She will speak no more, not now; she has nothing to say, and if she opens her mouth, she will only scream.

“She has passed along a letter for you,” the messenger says at last, weakly. “I carry other letters, and the names of the fallen, so that all may learn of the fates of their families . . .”

Hir voice trails off into nothingness as soon as Siril holds her wife’s letter in her hands. Her eyes blur as she stares at it, hoping – wishing – that somehow its contents will give her the answer to some unasked question.

It is too much to wish.

* * *

_Siril nin,_

_You deserve better, but I have not the words._

_Be safe. Continue as you are; take care of yourself and our home. Forgive me for my brevity, but know that it comforts me to think of you as you are, and that thoughts of you sing me to sleep each night._

_Whatever happens, know I love thee._

_Your_

_Laerwen_


	21. Part II, Chapter 5

The world fades in slowly around Laerwen, resolving itself gradually into sense. The voices come back first, but not the sense of them: low murmurs that are more a cushion of sound than anything she can understand. All is dark, and at first she panics, before realizing that her eyes are closed – but she does not yet have the strength even to open them.

Sensation comes back next: she feels hard ground beneath her back; one of her legs is bent and the other straight. There is pain, she thinks, but it is still distant, separated from her by the haze of unreality that still hangs over all she knows.

There is something beneath her head, but it is not a cushion, and then she notices the first clear sensation: something moving gently through her hair. A comb, or – yes, a set of fingers. And a voice is humming above her, wordless melody that reminds her of something softer and more comforting than the ground beneath her or the pain slowly starting to filter into her consciousness.

“Siril?” she murmurs, her voice emerging as a cracked whisper.

Silence for a moment, and then the fingers resume – and a voice above her. Her father’s. “No, _mell nîn_.”

Laerwen forces her eyes open, no matter the effort. A line of bright light lances through the crack between her eyelids, and the pain in her head sharpens. She moans, and instantly a hand is on her forehead, soft and cool, shading her eyes. She forces her vision – what little she has of it – to focus, and slowly makes out the face above her.

“Adar_?_” she croaks.

His eyes are softer than she has seen them in a long time, and bright with tears. “Yes, _henig nîn_,” he whispers. “I am glad to see you awake.”

She forces her eyes to focus, tries hard to remember. Above her, she sees her father’s face; the ground is hard – the murmuring around her takes the shape of words, all of injuries and treatments, and she realizes she is in a healing tent, one of the makeshift ones they set up behind the field where battle would be done –

Battle, yes. It is coming back, slowly, but only in vaguely-outlined thoughts all surrounding a large empty space that does not seem to be returning . . .

The murmurs grow quieter, and then she makes out her name, just before another face enters her line of vision. Alugail – the finest healer in the kingdom; of course she is here, tending to the crown prince. “Your Highness,” she says. “I must ask you – Your Majesty, if you would _cease_ moving your arm about so, I think we would all be much obliged.”

For a moment, Laerwen looks around for her grandfather, somewhat offended that he has not yet spoken to her – but Alugail’s eyes are fixed squarely on her father. _Your Majesty_, she named him, and in his face Laerwen sees a flash of anger and grief – and then she remembers.

“Adahir?” she whispers.

The anger fades from Thranduil’s face, and his eyes are heavy with sorrow when he looks down at her. “_Mell nîn_,” he says softly, “how much do you remember?”

And oh – the memory is coming back to her now, that empty space in her mind resolving into image and sound: the chaos, the screaming, the bright sunlight flashing off metal, the screaming, the pain, the _screaming_ –

“No,” she moans. “No, it was a dream, it was” –

“I am sorry, Laerwen,” murmurs her father, and strokes her hair back from her brow once more; only then does she notice that one of his arms is bound in a sling. “I wish I could tell you otherwise, but it was no dream.” He takes a breath, as though steeling himself to speak it aloud, to make it real – and when he speaks, it is in the Sindarin of their court, not the familiar Silvan dialect that was so soothing before. “The king is dead.”

“Long live the king,” says a new voice, and Laerwen turns her head where it lies in her father’s lap, tensing against the bright flare of pain at the motion. Elrond of Rivendell has ducked beneath the flap of the healing tent. The murmurs go silent, and all the healers bow to him, though Laerwen can read the sullen reluctance on their faces even through the haze in her mind.

“Lord Elrond,” says her father, his voice stiff.

“King Thranduil,” says Elrond, and Laerwen grits her teeth so no sound will escape her. If her father is king, then –

“It is an honor,” says Thranduil, through clenched teeth of his own. Laerwen’s mind is racing, no matter that it makes her head ache; if her grandfather is dead and her father is king, then there can be no other reason that Elrond is here than to secure their loyalty as he could not secure Oropher’s, to demand their humility – and there is little their people despise more than forced humbling. Humility is different from humiliation, Laerwen has learned already, and there is little question what the others want.

“That is gratifying to hear,” says the lord. “For it is honor that I offer – I wished to extend my condolence for the loss of your father and my congratulations on your own ascension.”

The way he speaks is strange: stilted and formal; never before did Laerwen think she would meet someone who spoke like a character from legend – but then, perhaps this is how their language is meant to be spoken. If that is so, Laerwen is glad of the dialect she has spoken since childhood.

Her father’s voice is equally stiff, if less formal, when he replies. “I thank you for your consideration. Though you will forgive me if I find the occasion one more for grief than gratitude.”

Unspoken are the words that hover on all their tongues: _why have you come?_ But that is answered with little delay. “Of course,” says Elrond. “It is a day of great tragedy, and we all feel the sorrow of your losses.” Again, unspoken: _we told you; they need not have happened_. “We trust that we may yet count on your assistance in our struggle against the great enemy – though of course none could fault you if you wished to retreat and protect your people from further injury.”

Laerwen can translate well enough what he means: _now that you have been shown the error of your ways, we await your compliance with our decrees, unless you would turn and run instead. _Loathing rises in her breast, a surge of heat pulsing in time with the pain in her head, but she pushes it down, as rigid as her father above her. He has the right to speak, not she, even if she is –

“A generous offer, no doubt,” says Thranduil, his voice icier than a winter storm. “But I and my people are not inclined to crawl away and lick our wounds when our home and our way of life are threatened. If you doubt my conviction, you may do so no longer.” His words are defiant yet careful; he does not promise them compliance, and Elrond notices it.

“I have come to extend the offer once again to join us in council; I am sure we would welcome your . . . strategic suggestions in our meetings,” says Elrond, and Laerwen can feel her father boiling above her. “Should you desire to come, once you are,” another long pause, “recovered.”

Thranduil does not respond for long moments, and Laerwen is sure that the same battle between temper and pride is raging within him as within her, and she is grateful that it is not her place to speak, that she need not pretend diplomacy. As it is, she is almost glad of the pain, for without it she might be inclined to unwise displays of temper.

Perhaps, too, her indisposition is enough to keep her father from reacting with more violence. His fingers remain gentle against her brow, but she can feel the tension in his touch, can imagine the tautness of the tendon that extends up his arm. “I am sure I should be much obliged,” he says at last, the words carefully not revealing more than the obligatory sentiment. “You will understand that I will attend no one until I have seen to my daughter’s recovery.”

“Of course.” Lord Elrond dips his chin just slightly; his silver circlet flashes in the corner of Laerwen’s eyes, and her teeth clench hard enough to send a new flare of pain through her head. “And I am sure you understand our hope that in cooperation, we may reduce the loss of life such that none of us need fear for the lives of any more of our children.”

The very air changes within the tent; though she cannot see their faces, Laerwen can _feel_ the pulse of anger from every one of her people at his implication, at his daring. Above her, her father hisses in one furious breath, and though his face is carved in ice, the anger boils in his voice when he speaks.

“You may speak to me thus again when you are a father, my lord,” he says. “For now, I ask you to excuse yourself from my tent.”

Perhaps Elrond realizes he has gone too far, but he does not back down – it is wise, Laerwen thinks even through her dislike; to attempt to excuse such a statement would place him worse. He merely inclines his head in the same manner as before – pretending to offer deference, though they all know he speaks from a position of command. “Your pardon, your Majesty,” he says. “We will speak when you are ready, of course. My best wishes for your recovery, Princess Laerwen.”

He sweeps out of the tent, leaving silence behind.

“Will you go to him?” Laerwen brings herself to ask at last, though she knows the answer already. “Will you give in to them?”

Her father sighs, and his head sinks low, his face crumpling in grief. “Yes,” he says slowly. “I will.”

There is a hiss from the other side of the tent, and one of the injured sits up. “Your high – your Majesty?” he says, but it is as though the change in title sinks into his spirit as he speaks, and he says nothing more, subsiding back onto his pallet.

“There will be no debate about this,” Thranduil says, though every word seems to drag from him more strength than he has. “Your families trusted my father with your lives. Now that he is gone, the charge passes to me, and I” – He draws a deep breath of his own. “I will not let any more of them be squandered,” he finishes softly.

_Any more_. Laerwen knows she must ask; her memories of the battle are blurred but bloody, and she does not know the answer, but she knows it will not be good. “The losses,” she says. “Adar, how many losses?”

He does not even speak. Slowly, sadly, he shakes his head.

* * *

The losses she learns of in bits, pieced together from what the healers reveal as they fuss over her head, about the other patients laid up in other tents – far, far fewer patients than there ought to be. Not because so many people have escaped unharmed, but because all the rest of them are dead.

Ranion is gone, she learns, but that is all – no one knows how he fell, or even where his body might now lie. The news hits Laerwen like a second blow to the head. They have never been close, but she has always been fond of him. And he was her companion here, a friendly face amidst so much unfamiliarity – a face she will never see smiling again. Meluiwen is uninjured, but only because her older brother threw himself in front of a blade, intercepting a killing blow meant for her. Now she huddles in the tent across from Laerwen, shaking like a man in a frozen river, and she will speak to no one.

And Oropher . . .

Oropher was the mightiest of them all, she is told, again and again, through tears, by those begging for comfort in their grief and fear of what is to come. He was the mightiest of all, at the head of the charge no matter what, and he died just as bravely. No one can agree how many foes it took to bring him down, but the number only grows with each addition to the tale – and there is no body to belie the stories, for it too is gone. Left behind in the marshes.

It matters not how many foes Oropher brought down before he fell; there were too many for him – too many for all of them – and the marshes sucked at their feet and drove them apart from Amdir’s people, and the foes came upon them in an overwhelming tide even as the muck threatened to drag them under, and those who still could ran. Ran with everything they had.

Laerwen’s father found her unconscious body, Dravaor tells her, when ze comes in to visit, and carried her all the way back even as he cried out the order to retreat. He did not leave her side until after she woke, but now he is gone, off to visit the other tents of the wounded, even with one arm bound tightly to his side.

She wonders how he can bear to face the others.

She wonders how it can be that this is only the beginning.

* * *

That night, they sing.

The mood is nothing like it was only days before, when Oropher stood before them, when they joined with Amdir’s people to share in their songs, all of them coming together in the hopes of building their spirits for the battles to come. Then the songs were all hopeful; they spoke of danger and triumph, bloodshed and battle-joy, and the hope for peaceful days after the battle was won.

Now…

The elves of Lothlórien grieve separately; their losses have been nearly but not as heavy, and Laerwen does not think any of their people can bear to look others in the face, knowing that they live while so many of their own have been slain. She knows, though, that none of them have ventured to the Noldor’s camp tonight. That will come much later.

First, they sing.

Maeglad begins the melody, and then Nimloth leads a small group in a haunting harmony. Slowly, one after the other, they all join in. Laerwen waits to sing her portion until the song has built, built, and then she raises her voice in descant over the swelling sound, letting her own grief and fear weave in between and around the notes. But still the song is empty, bereft of the voice meant to rise above them all, to give shape and purpose to the melody – to give voice to their grief and yet to lead them through it.

Her father takes a deep breath, and the background harmonies seem to sink lower as his voice swells in a powerful tenor line over the rest. All the terror of the last days finds release in his voice, all the chaos of the battlefield rises again in Laerwen’s breast, and she remembers – remembers even things that were unclear to her just hours ago; her heart expands until she fears it might burst, but still she keeps singing – and then the line of her father’s voice winds down, and she hears the not-quite-silence of death in the sudden hush of all the other voices, until nothing is left beneath his voice but a slow, sad hum.

And then his voice rises again and the dreadful grief sweeps her up; her very soul rises with his voice, rising to terrible heights, dangling above a chasm into which she cannot bear to fall, and she is singing but she hardly knows what anymore, only that it follows him, that she feels with him, that his voice carries all her emotion with it.

_“Amman?”_ he sings, _why, why would you leave us?_ – and she knows that he sings of his father, of her grandfather, but of all of them, of the grief that he still carries from before her birth, of the fear for their world and the horror that it has come to this, of the shame of the humiliation that these others would force upon them – of the spirit that, it seems, has always forsaken their people, has always forced them to bend, however straight they would like to stand –

They sing for long hours, sing through their pain and their terror, and they weep for their fallen king and their kin and for their future. Laerwen knows that even as none of them can bear to think it, they all wonder what will become of them; if so many of their people can be lost so soon and so swiftly, how can they hope to go on? But they cannot allow those thoughts in, even as they hover at the edge of their collective consciousness, and so they sing, and let the grief of their losses swell over the terror for their future.

When the singing is finished, but before their eyes have dried, they hold the coronation. It is a sorry ceremony – small and paltry, Galvorn whispers to her, compared to what the Silvan elves held for Oropher, when they accepted him as their lord. But it must be done, and so they take as many elements from the ceremony as they can: the oldest Sindarin and Silvan advisors speak the words together, symbolic of the accord between their peoples; the questions are asked in Sindarin, but Thranduil repeats the vows in the Silvan dialect – the one place that tongue has in official ceremonies.

They do not have the crown, though. It is lost with Oropher’s body, in the marshes.

They weave a hasty replacement of the dead leaves and twigs they can find, so close to such a foul and corrupted land, and Laerwen is called upon to lower it onto his head. As she does, he looks up and their eyes meet – and for half an instant, she sees a flash of unmasked terror in his.

Her memory flashes back to the moment in the tent, when he lifted his head so wearily and said _the charge passes to me_. The charge of all these lives – she looks around at their faces, all these people who she has come to know over two hundred years of serving with them, over these months of travel, of struggle. All these people who make up the kingdom – all these people for whose lives her father is now responsible.

And if he falls –

She bites her tongue hard against a cry at that realization. For all that she has long known it a possibility – she has never truly _understood_ as she does now that this weight could be hers one day. That her father stands here grieving his own father – and the memories of his past – but that he cannot do it for long, for now he must assume responsibility for the lives of all those under his command. Even to the point of giving way to Elrond, even to the point of following orders.

_That_ is what leading means, she realizes – and oh, she is not ready for the charge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Politicking is hard sometimes. And there are good and bad times to say _I told you so._
> 
> Translations:  
_Henig nîn_ = my daughter  
_Mell nîn_ = my dear


	22. Part II, Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some bleak little snippets for you.

The next morning, Thranduil visits the camp of the Noldor. He permits no one to accompany him, not even Laerwen. Perhaps especially not Laerwen. She knows he felt her fury yesterday, and vows to herself that she will learn to check it, to be the princess the kingdom needs.

Even if the thought of her father on his knees does make her blood boil.

When he returns, only the steel set of his jaw betrays his emotions. “We will all follow the orders of Lords Gil-galad and Elrond on the battlefield,” he announces.

It attests to the tiredness in his eyes that no one protests.

* * *

She will not truly understand their situation until later, when it is long over.

She has not grown up on tales of this enemy and the horrors he has wrought; she does not know the specifics of the distrust their many different allied armies have for one another. She might have heard the stories before they departed, but those stories can only do so much to explain the stiffness in the shoulders of every one of her people when they speak to the armies the other elves have brought; the reluctant desire in the man Isildur’s eyes when he speaks of the “horror and beauty” of Sauron’s creations.

All she knows is that there are _so many of them_. The enemy’s armies still outnumber them, of course, but – Laerwen has never seen dwarves before, and men only few at a time, on diplomatic visits or the occasional patrol to the edge of the wood. Not armies and armies of them, all co-existing in an uneasy alliance that resists hierarchy – yet all obeying at the same time.

She feels tiny, compared to the vastness of it all – and yet she is here.

And yet they are all here.

* * *

The part she cannot overcome is the screaming.

It is a common sound now, a background buzz against all that they do, even when the battles have ended; they can hear it behind the walls. But she has learned to block that out, to numb her ears to the sound. It is the screaming of the people she kills, the cry as her sword slices flesh, to which she cannot numb herself. She has fought orcs before, raiding parties trying their luck at the borders of her kingdom, and it is easy to defend herself against those who would threaten her realm’s safety. But the men here – their faces could be those she fights beside; their features are not twisted and mutilated by the horror of a long-ago dark lord, but by the pain as her sword skewers their insides; and it is the horrifyingly human cry that tears through her for an instant, renders her knees weak and her mind fuzzy and –

“ELF!”

The roar snaps her free from her daze; she blinks and turns; she has half an instant to process the man behind her, the sword already descending on her; she raises hers to block it, but she is too slow, too slow –

And then the man falls with a cry, an axe buried in his belly, and Laerwen looks down, stunned, into the bearded face of a dwarf.

“Guard your back,” is all he says, and then he turns and launches himself back into the fray with a hoarse battle cry before Laerwen can think about how to thank him.

* * *

She finds him afterwards, when they have sent their enemies that day back behind their gates and withdrawn to their own camps; she weaves through the fray of people, mingled men and elves and dwarves.

She did not have time to get a good look, but she thinks she can pick out his features – the brown of his beard, smeared with red gore; the green gems winking at the backs of his gauntlets, the one impractical addition to his armor – and if not, she must at least try.

He spots her before she finds him, as it happens – she supposes it makes sense. The dwarves stick more closely together than the other armies, and she stands out in their midst, tall as she is. He stumps over to her, and she recognizes him as he approaches as the one who saved her life.

“Princess,” he says.

He knows who she is, then. “Master Dwarf,” she responds. It is the best she can do, for she has neither name nor title for him – all she knows is that he is not the general who greeted them what feels like a lifetime ago. “I wished to – thank you. For your aid, before.”

“No need. We are allies.” He stands nearly alarmingly still, disciplined as she has seen from only the very greatest of elven warriors, not even inclining his head to match the cordiality of the words. “But if I might offer some advice? Do not let them distract you.”

They are the same words Nimloth used, so long ago – but she senses that his meaning is different, somehow. “I” –

“We were all inexperienced warriors at some point, Princess,” he says. She wonders if he uses the title as a mockery, but cannot bring herself to ask. “You must make a decision: is their pain worth your own? You decide, or you die. Do that.”

_Is their pain worth your own?_ It is the right phrasing, she realizes, but the wrong question. It is not her own life that matters, but the lives of all the people she is sworn to protect – the people here, depending on her family; the people waiting at home, the ones she can hardly bear to think of. In the face of all that she risks, this dwarf is right – she cannot afford to think about the pain of those she has slain.

“Thank y” – she starts to say, but he is already gone, before she ever had a chance to learn his name.

* * *

Writing to Siril grows more difficult with every letter. It is the only time Laerwen can afford to lower her guard; even alone with her father now they are king and princess more than father and daughter, and it pains her to think of the bloodstains on the hand with which she writes, when Siril so reverences life and growth and beauty.

Some of the men jest with one another about their families left at home, teasing that their wives will quickly find other men to lie with. Many of them laugh off the jests, but some take them seriously – Laerwen has witnessed more than one fistfight between soldiers meant to be allies and friends.

She does not share their fears, but she cannot help remembering her mother’s words from before their wedding long ago: that elves choose mates who will grow with them, who will bloom together into life. She and Siril had made a good start, she thought, but now she wonders. They have been apart so long, and Siril will be home tending her garden and caring for the people of the kingdom – and Laerwen is here, sowing only death and blood with every stroke of her sword. Will Siril be able to love her still, when she returns home, after all she has done?

Will she return home at all?

* * *

They have been here for too long.

Laerwen has lost count – a year, two years, perhaps? Every day drags on, bloodshed and mourning and healing and hopeless strategy blending into one another, every second too agonizingly long – and then when the sun sets at the end of the day, Laerwen finds herself blinking in surprise that it is ended already.

Of course, night is not the end; it is only the beginning of new horrors. They keep torches burning all night, even full fires if they can risk it – for night is when the enemy’s most fearsome servants come to visit them. Without the daylight that serves as their best defense, they are vulnerable to the creeping coldness of the solid ghosts of darkness – Ringwraiths, they are called, in reference to the stories Oropher told Laerwen when all this began – but they seem like night incarnate, all the threat and coldness that Laerwen has never known to fear when the sun goes down. Their stare turns the blood to ice, and their cries – their cries make Laerwen’s skin want to peel free of her body. When they come to visit, the Greenwood elves can do little more than huddle together around their fires or within the flimsy buildings they have constructed, perhaps defending themselves with flaming arrows – but that does no more than drive the enemy away. Can these apparitions even be killed?

It is like a nightmare that does not end; the horror of bloodshed during the day giving way to the freezing fear of night – and still and always there is room for new dreadful surprises.

Dravaor finds her in the tent with the healers, having her latest wounds stitched up. She wonders if there is a single place on her whole skin that has not yet known blade or needle.

“Laerwen,” ze says, when the healers have finished their work, and she stands up – ignoring their words to take care with the stitches – and follows hir to where they have laid out the dead.

She knows why ze has called her instantly.

Hir command is larger here than it was in the woods; no longer does ze have command over the novice swordsmen but over many of the more experienced warriors as well – but Laerwen has always been closest with the members of their original unit. She has watched it dwindle over time, but now she looks down on the body of her last companion.

Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Meluiwen has not looked this peaceful since before they came here, before she lost her brother and friend both on the same day. Now, even with the way her throat gapes open, even with the dark bloodstain that has spread to stain the neck of her clothing, she looks oddly at peace – her eyes wide and staring and sightless.

Laerwen kneels beside her. Driven by some compulsion, she places her fingers on Meluiwen’s eyelids. A wave of nausea washes over her at their cold lifelessness beneath her fingers, but she slides them closed anyway, and as she does so, something equally cold and still shutters down inside her soul.

When she stands, she is as calm as her friend.

“Farewell,” she whispers, her voice steady, and something inside of her turns to ice.


	23. Part II, Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for chapter number two (and last, sort of) including Siril's family and my general dissatisfaction with the way I write them.

Cuindis takes to being queen as though she were born to the role.

She takes over the king’s seat – not his throne, but the one beside it, where Thranduil used to sit. Siril supposes he will assume Oropher’s throne when – when he returns. But for now Cuindis is their ruler, and Siril is the princess, and somehow her wife’s mother rules with a self-assurance Siril cannot begin to understand.

Cuindis listens to the people: she is the ear and the steadying hand that they need in this time of great uncertainty, and she hears their grievances, offers advice, and dispenses justice as she must. Siril’s admiration for her grows with every day – week – month that they wait in edgy anticipation of news that comes only sparsely, from messengers, each of whom looks more tense and fearful than the last.

For herself, Siril cannot do what her mother-in-law does. She cannot do what her wife does, either – she is no warrior to challenge their foes – but she knows the forest and will do what it takes to defend their home, so she offers her services in preparation of the forest’s defenses. Most of their warriors have gone, so Siril takes charge of the task of creating snares and alerts around the outskirts of the kingdom.

She invites Celair to join her: ze has always been Siril’s favorite sibling, after all, and the two of them have uncommon skill in plant-speech and healing even among the Silvan elves. They, and a few others who follow them, are responsible for the borders, ensuring that all is well and nothing sinister approaches, that none of their traps have been sprung – and, perhaps most importantly, that the forest feels the gratitude of its inhabitants.

It is better thus, so that Siril may feel herself useful and needed, so that she may bury her fears in work, even if those fears only increase with every day between messages, every day when she does not hear from her wife. She knows Cuindis feels the same way—indeed, more so, for both her husband and daughter place themselves in this danger—but Siril cannot bear to speak to her of it, to open herself up to the searing sympathy of one who has even more to lose.

It is good – or as good as anything can be, in these days of fear and loneliness – to be with Celair. Ze has always understood Siril the way no one else in her family has, and they talk for long hours as they patrol, as they have not talked in many years, since Siril left their family home to live in the palace.

It is not long before her parents take notice.

* * *

Celair melts out of the cover of the grove to nudge Siril’s upper arm; she looks at hir, surprised, but Celair merely inclines hir head – and then Siril sees her.

“Hallassel.”

Were it not that Siril’s mind has never before shown her visions beyond what truly stands before her, she would wonder for a moment if this is not some strange dream-figment. Her sister strides out of the trees, her hair shining in the dim light under the trees, her carriage as proud as ever – here in flesh and spirit, though Siril cannot imagine what her business is.

“Siril.” No barb accompanies the cool greeting; Hallassel merely nods, and the lack of offensive has Siril stiffening in anticipation of what is to come. “Celair.”

“What brings you here?” asks Celair, direct as Siril still cannot bring herself to be, her tongue frozen up at the sight of the sister she has not seen in person in so long.

“Is it so surprising that I might follow you for the pleasure of your company?” Now a slight smile plays around Hallassel’s lips, the hint of mockery slipping back into her tone. Were she someone else, she might be teasing herself for such an out-of-character action – but this is Hallassel, and every word is a dart. There is no pleasure to be had in their company, she seems to say – and slowly the true purpose of her presence here descends on Siril, dread sinking into her stomach.

Celair rolls hir eyes. “Yes.”

“Ah, perhaps so.” Hallassel laughs lightly. “Well, then, is it surprising that I might have taken an interest in our kingdom’s defenses?” She winks. “Perhaps I will see you here again some other time.”

Still Siril has not managed a single word, but Hallassel merely smiles her tiny smile and melts away into the trees.

Celair and Siril merely look at one another for long moments after she has vanished. “Well,” Celair says at last, wry. “Had you forgotten the delight of family visits, here was a wonderful reminder.”

“A reminder, indeed,” Siril murmurs. But – as her heart sinks lower into her stomach – she cannot help feeling it was more than that.

* * *

More indeed.

Hallassel does not appear again the next time Celair and Siril venture out again to check on their traps – but Siril finds herself looking over her shoulder at every noise, wondering when the next appearance will come. A reminder, Celair called that first encounter – a reminder to Siril that her family exists, that they are still here in the kingdom, for all that she fled so easily from them into her wife’s family, for all that she made herself a true home there. Now Laerwen is gone, and Thranduil is gone, and Cuindis is the queen –

It is a very convenient time for a reminder indeed.

They seem to have realized that it was too shocking – too daring – to begin with an encounter with Hallassel on the western boundaries of the realm. What business would she have there, after all? The next encounter – the next messenger – is much less conspicuous.

After all, is it really so surprising that Hethundir might find himself on an assignment at the hospital where Alugail worked before she left with the warriors – at exactly the time Siril showed up there to discuss the state of supplies with her apprentice? Siril might have still been taken aback by it at another time, but she would not necessarily have found it suspicious.

But after her encounter with Hallassel – after her understanding of what is coming – her certainty grows as soon as she catches sight of him. And, unlike their mother, Hethundir has never been an apt pretender; his air of feigned innocence is more suspicious than downright shiftiness would have been.

Their conversation is short and stilted, and when they finally part, Siril’s limbs feel rooted to the ground.

She knows what will come of this.

* * *

All she can think to do is confess to her mother-in-law.

“Cuindis,” she says, and asking for help has never been easy, but Cuindis makes it less daunting merely by being herself. “I think my parents are trying to contact me.”

Cuindis says nothing at first, but rests a hand on Siril’s. “Do you not wish them to?”

“They” – Siril struggles to phrase it correctly. “They will come to me now, but would not before? They did not comfort me when my wife left, but now that you are queen” –

Cuindis squeezes her hand. “What do you want?” is all she asks.

Siril hesitates. How can she answer, when asked so directly? And what does she want? She wants everything the way it was before; she wants Laerwen back; she wants to dive back into this family that has given her shelter and hide from the world.

“I do not want them to take advantage of me,” she says at last.

Cuindis smiles at her – a little sad, but there is a strength behind it that gives Siril comfort. “Then do not let them.”

* * *

When at last her parents come to try their luck overtly, she is ready.

They come to the palace, as they have not dared to do in so many years. Always before Thranduil has been the one to meet them, to put them off – folding Siril into his family and beneath his protection without ever speaking of it, without ever making an attempt to excuse the brusqueness with which he would treat her parents – those who gave her life. And she in turn has never known how to thank him for it.

Now, she supposes, is the best way she can, though he will never know of it – to gain her courage for herself.

Cuindis accompanies her to the chamber where she has had them sent, and she cannot but be grateful for it – for the silent strength beside her of her mother-in-law, who has ever acted a truer mother than the one who birthed her.

“Siril!” Mecheneb says now, with a brightness in her voice that belies the truth of Siril’s thoughts – that would almost make Siril believe herself their long-lost, long-loved daughter – if not for the slight sharp note of falseness in it. “And your Majesty, Queen Cuindis.” She bows to Cuindis, and the latter’s hand comes to rest gently on Siril’s shoulder, giving her strength.

“Naneth,” Siril says, though the word feels stale in her mouth. “What business brings you here?”

“We wished to visit you, of course!” Her father’s voice booms, too loud; Galion, the poor steward who brought him here, flinch-cringes at the sound of it. “It has been long indeed since we have seen our daughter.”

_Long indeed_. She nods, for a moment as tongue-tied as she has ever been around them, unable to loose the caustic remarks that swirl behind her tongue. Her mother hovers expectantly, as though waiting for Siril’s words of false welcome, to play the game as ever before, when she could not free herself from it – but the distance between them feels less pressing than Siril has ever known of it before. Long indeed – they have not come since before the soldiers left the Greenwood, or even directly after, and even when they did come it was not to see her. They did not come to comfort her when her wife departed – not until now, now they have learned Cuindis is queen and Laerwen stands next in line for the throne . . . now that mortality looms too close in all of their minds to ignore the possibility that Laerwen could fall, too, so far away, and leave Siril more alone than she has ever been before.

The thought is enough to set her soul to quivering, but Cuindis squeezes her shoulder and Siril finds her tongue.

“It has been long,” she says coolly. “I confess, I wonder at your presence here now.”

“Might we wish to see our daughter without our intentions being questioned?” Mecheneb’s shock is as affected as the rest of her, and Siril thinks she has never felt so _real_ as she does with Laerwen and her family. Where were her parents when Laerwen and Thranduil left to do their duty to the forest and the world, when Siril’s own responsibilities tripled at their absence? They might have wished to see her, to aid her – but Hallassel did not stay to aid Siril and Celair with their work on the realm’s defenses; Hethundir did not help her to carry the supplies she was delivering to the hospital. Her parents did not invite her to their home, but came to meet her here instead – in the hopes of making their presence known and felt, heedless of her comfort, of what she might desire.

And here she stands with her wife’s mother, who has come to rule the kingdom now and may well – though the thought makes Siril’s soul shudder – come to rule it alone – who can teach her so much about the ways of true royalty, not the pretensions to which her parents aspire –

“I think you may not, no,” she says. “I think your intentions are a fair target for question.”

She has never spoken so plainly before; always she has hidden behind vague words or silence – or her father-in-law, to speak aloud the words she did not dare to say. Now that he is away, let this be her gift to him, a silent tribute.

Mecheneb opens her mouth, her eyes outraged, but Siril speaks up again. “Why do you come now?” she asks. “Why do you come now, when my wife has been so long away, when so many years have passed since we have spoken? And when you come, why do you demand an audience with the queen as well, rather than approaching me alone outside, when you have made it so clear you know where to find me? No, I think for the good of my kingdom, I _must_ question your intentions.”

_My kingdom._ She has never spoken the words thus before, so baldly – but they feel somehow right as they never have in all her years of marriage.

Her father swells, but before he can speak, Cuindis clears her throat. “I think it best you return another time,” she says. Her voice is soft, but by no means gentle. “If you wish to speak to Siril in truth, you may send a message, so she might decide for herself the time and place.”

And she gestures to Galion to see them out.

When they have departed, huffing, down the hall, Cuindis turns to Siril. “Your kingdom?” she says, laughter in her eyes.

But Siril does not question that she is being teased, not anymore. “Did I misspeak?” she says.

Cuindis laughs and shakes her head. “You did not,” she says, and kisses Siril’s forehead. “My daughter, you did not.”

And Siril knows she is home.


	24. Part II, Chapter 8

When at long last the soldiers return to the Greenwood, there is no celebration.

There is not enough joy for that; yes, perhaps they have returned victorious, evil driven back once more, but on no one’s tongue does the word “victory” taste quite right. Their numbers are too few for that, more bodies left behind hastily buried on the plains of Mordor – for those who received even that courtesy – than returning home, to say nothing of the wounds on their bodies or on their hearts. Families do not exclaim in joy upon seeing their loved ones, but rather weep and wail at the loss of those who have not come home. All through the forest songs of lament rise into the sky, and on this day all the Greenwood is heavy with grief.

There is no coronation, nor will there be; all Siril need do is glance at them to know that. All know the news of the new king, and even if they did not, it would be plain to see. Thranduil wears no crown; Laerwen’s simple circlet is absent from her head, but they carry themselves with the grief and pride and tiredness of those who have ruled too long already, who have come to their place not out of gain but from loss. And they are hard, too – they wear the set faces and resolute eyes of warriors – even Laerwen, who has never looked so before. In truth, it makes Siril almost afraid to reach out and touch her.

And at first she need not take that step, for Cuindis starts forward with a wordless cry and sweeps Laerwen and Thranduil both into her embrace. She is small and slight, Siril’s mother-in-law, but somehow she seems larger than both her husband and daughter in that moment.

Siril stays back, letting them have their reunion; she has borne witness to Cuindis’s grief and fear these last long years, her fear of losing all her chosen family. She deserves this moment to hold them close.

Thranduil’s face is not visible, his head bowed over his wife’s, but his shoulders shake, and Siril’s eyes prick at the sight. For all that she and Cuindis have suffered, she cannot even imagine what they must have felt. And in the face of that great uncertainty, the magnitude of all that has come while they were apart, Siril dares not reach out.

Until, that is, Laerwen extracts one arm from the tangled embrace and beckons her.

The reluctance vanishes; she is moving before she can feel her feet beneath her, and then she is enfolded into the family’s hold.

“Thank you,” Thranduil is whispering; his hair showers down over his shoulders and falls like a veil around their tangle of heads and arms and disbelieving relief. “Thank you both for caring for the forest in our absence; thank you for doing what I could not” –

“What we could not,” corrects Laerwen, and a _noise_ rises up in Siril’s chest at the sound of her voice – so familiar and yet so different, so long missed – a noise that she barely manages to strangle in her throat.

Perhaps they can feel it, for finally Cuindis and Thranduil separate themselves from the embrace until only Laerwen and Siril are left; their free arms wrap around one another’s shoulders, and then Siril is holding her wife in her arms again.

The embrace is graceless, clumsy, as though they have forgotten how they fit together – and how can it be that seven short years are enough to forget memories they have had a hundred years to make? – but that awkwardness lasts but a moment. For once again Siril can feel the warmth and weight of her wife against her, and though she has much she wishes to say to Laerwen, and even more that she knows not how to speak, in this moment all words vanish from her mind.

Laerwen pulls back at last and looks at her. Again, her grey eyes are almost disconcertingly hard, that stare turned steely and cold. But beneath the shields Siril can see vast landscapes of hurt and vulnerability – still she can see her wife’s soul in those eyes, and she knows that not all is lost.

“You are real,” Laerwen says at last, reaching up to rest wondering fingers at Siril’s temple.

Siril almost laughs. “Did you expect me not to be?”

“I . . . I know not. I think there was part of me that . . . that could not imagine . . .” Laerwen sways, and Siril catches her by the hands.

“To bed with you,” she says. All else can wait. “You are surely worn from your labors.”

Laerwen closes her eyes. “Mere words cannot tell it,” she says. A tiny smile quirks her lips. “I shall likely fall asleep as soon as I need no longer support my own weight – or perhaps even sooner.”

“Shall I carry you to bed, then, that you need not wait?” Siril teases.

Again that tiny smile. “Let me try to manage the journey on my own legs,” Laerwen says. “But stand ready should you be called upon to prevent a collision with the wall – or the ground.”

Siril loops an arm around Laerwen’s waist anyway, and Laerwen sways into her as they walk. The songs of mourning rise and fall as they move, some growing distant and others drawing nearer, swelling and descending at different times. Laerwen sighs at the sound, and that long rush of breath carries more pain than Siril can bear to hear in her love’s voice.

“I am sorry,” she says quietly.

Laerwen’s voice is sharper than its previous slur when she responds. “For what?”

For many things. She is sorry she was not there, and sorrier that she would have been no aid had she been – for if so many experienced warriors can be so easily slain, what would she have done but caused Laerwen more grief? She is sorry about her inability to phrase any of what she feels, or to understand what Laerwen herself is feeling.

But in the end, it is simple: she is sorry for Laerwen’s pain.

“For everything,” she says at last.

“No,” murmurs Laerwen. “Do not apologize. Be yourself, and you have no reason to be sorry.”

Back in their chambers, Laerwen stands in the doorway for long moments, blinking around the room as though her mind cannot resolve what her eyes see. Of course—it has been years since she has seen these rooms; years, perhaps, since she slept in a bed grander than a cot; years since she has felt the comforts of home.

Siril wonders how long she has been on the road this day, how long the day before, how long since they stopped for a rest, and tries to think: in such a situation, what would she crave?

“Will you want to bathe before bed?” she asks. “Or perhaps a bite to eat, or—” Laerwen’s knees fold beneath her, and Siril’s sentence goes unfinished as she rushes forward to catch her. “Bed, then,” she concludes, supporting her half-conscious wife through the greeting chambers and into their bedroom. “Food and a bath we will find you in the morning.”

“Should I have risen by then,” mumbles Laerwen. Her feet shuffle in a semblance of walking, but her body sags and her head has rolled to rest against Siril’s shoulder. “Indeed, I fear perhaps you will be without a wife for another seven years.”

“They will ask me, where is the lady that you married?” Siril teases gently. “And I shall have to tell them, here, my lords; she is here in this bed. And they will ask me if I am lacking in those charms that would keep my wife entertained, or if she spends all her time in dream, that she might imagine finer things. And” –

“And you will not listen to a word of it,” says Laerwen, “for you will know that the memory of your charms alone sustained your wife for seven long years away from you. Ah, that is divine.” She slides easily from Siril’s grasp into the bed and lets Siril draw the covers over her. “I think I have never lain in a finer bed.”

Not in seven years has a smile risen so easily to Siril’s face, and for just this one moment everything else ceases to matter. “Sleep, then, for as long as you need, even if it be seven years more before I see once more the beauty of your wakeful eyes.”

Laerwen speaks not a word in answer; already her eyes have slid fully shut, her mouth fallen slack. Siril sways, knocked off balance in the wave of tenderness that swells at the rare sight of her wife sunk in deep sleep.

There are other things to be done, surely, preparations to be made for bed – Siril at least ought to change into sleep clothes; she has not the excuse of long days on the road – but she cannot bring herself to move a step away.

That smile stays on her face even as she slips into the bed as well, brushes a kiss over Laerwen’s sleeping brow, and settles in for the night herself.

* * *

Siril sleeps lightly that night, drifting in and out of the lightest dreams to gaze long and again upon her wife’s sleeping face. Sometimes she wonders if the waking is a dream as well: seven years is no time, not compared to the hundreds they have had before, and yet it seems a whole age has passed since they last shared a bed. She can hardly believe their separation has been so long – or indeed, that it took as little time as it did.

Laerwen sleeps as a mortal all the night long – never before has Siril seen her wife so deep in slumber. She hardly moves, save for the rise and fall of her breast and belly as she breathes. Even at dawn, when she usually rises, she responds not at all when Siril stirs beside her, not even when the covers slip partly off her outside arm.

Siril tidies them for her anyway, pulling them up and tucking them back in; only the slightest twitch of Laerwen’s shoulder is her response. It is disconcerting; Siril is not used to being the first to rise, but she takes the opportunity to sit beside the bed and gaze down at Laerwen’s face.

Laerwen has been striking as long as Siril has known her, and she is even more so now: the angles of her face are more pronounced, the line of her mouth harder: a stark counter to the softness of her lips and her delicate eyebrows. The skin of her brow is drawn taut by the severity of her braids, which have hardly loosened in her sleep; Siril takes a moment to study them.

The style is the same one she has always favored for traveling or fighting: several tight braids back from her face and neck, joined together at the back of her head into a single long plait down her back. Siril wonders if others can tell as well as she when Laerwen has braided her own hair or let Siril do it instead: she would never have drawn the braids so tight, but Laerwen is not gentle with herself.

Siril cannot help herself; she trails a finger over Laerwen’s temple, tucking aside the few wisps of hair that have come loose in the night, gold-tinted cobweb when separated from the rest of her hair. Laerwen does not stir.

There is a tiny part of Siril that wishes she would, that wishes for Laerwen’s eyes to open and a smile to bloom on her face, roused by the merest brush of skin against skin. But she pushes that part away, forces the feelings down – for she knows that in truth there is no greater honor than this: that Laerwen sleeps so peacefully under Siril’s watch. Siril knows her wife’s instincts; knows she would not have slept so under the Enemy’s eye, and she leans down, overwhelmed at last, to press another kiss to the hollow of Laerwen’s cheekbone.

After some time, she rouses herself. Surely Laerwen will be hungry when she wakes; likely she will want a bath as well. Siril intends to show her a fine morning at home, to give her all the comforts she has gone so long without.

It is perhaps another hour, after Siril has set up a tub and made a fire, brewed tea and drunk a cup herself, alone in the kitchen and gazing out the window at the birds long since awake, when she finally hears stirring from the bedroom. She makes haste to pour another cup of tea and carries both into the bedroom with her, walking as quickly as she can without spilling.

Laerwen is sitting up in bed, one hand shading her eyes; the other covering a yawn. Despite the travel-worn garments and taut braids, she looks in that moment soft and vulnerable, and Siril can hardly keep from sweeping her into her arms right then.

“Good morning,” is all she says instead.

“Siril.” Laerwen blinks at her, then yawns again. “Oh – it hardly feels like morning already, and yet I see it is long past dawn and I have lazed abed far too long!” She moves to rise, but Siril sits beside her on the edge of the bed before she can and offers the cup of tea.

“You would go now, and waste my efforts?” She tries a smile. “I think you have earned yourself a day of lazing about, if not much more.”

“Mmm.” Laerwen blinks again and sways. “Well, I shall hope you have the right of it, for I feel apt to collapse again for another day, right here.” She makes as if to lie down again.

Siril laughs, though in truth she cannot quite tell if Laerwen speaks in jest or not. “Well, if you would do your lady wife a kindness, you will not sleep again until you have had the tea I have brought you, and at least a bit of a welcome home.”

“A welcome home, you say?” Laerwen smiles at last, slow and full of promise. “You remind me that I have not had one of those yet, have I?”

She takes both mugs from Siril’s hands and sets them on the bedside table. “Tea later,” she murmurs, and pulls Siril into her arms.

_Oh_.

The air seems to have vanished from Siril’s lungs without any exhale, for as soon as her body is flush against Laerwen’s own, she finds herself gasping. Heat surges through her everywhere their bodies touch, concentrating in her head, and suddenly she is dizzy with breathlessness and the relief of finally, _finally_ being in her wife’s arms once more.

Laerwen laughs wildly, sounding just as undone and drunk as Siril feels. “Oh,” she breathes, and she reaches up to cup Siril’s face and bring their mouths crashing together.

It is their first kiss in seven years, and the only way Siril can feel it is in how desperately she hungers for more. There is no confusion, no uncertainty about how tightly to hold or where to place her hands, the way it was when they were first stumbling their way into love. She has forgotten nothing about touching Laerwen except how _vital_ it is, how much she craves it, how greedily her body cries out for more.

She moans against Laerwen’s mouth, and the sound catches in the vibration of Laerwen’s own matching whimper. They giggle breathlessly in their desperation, bodies undulating in unstoppable waves of motion, panting laughter into one another’s mouths.

Siril’s hands have been wound tightly into Laerwen’s travel tunic; now she moves them up to the fastenings. It is a slow journey, for they encounter several other sites along the way that they want to touch instead. “Let us get you – out of your worn clothes,” she gasps between kisses, and Laerwen laughs and wriggles her shoulders in a way that is probably meant to help, but only serves to distract Siril further.

Her fingers are clumsy with eagerness, but she manages to slide Laerwen’s tunic from her shoulders and scrabbles at her undershirt, then her breastband. Laerwen’s breasts are small and firm already, but she keeps them as ruthlessly contained as her hair when traveling or fighting, and Siril sucks in a breath when they fall free.

“I missed you,” she whispers, and Laerwen gives another huff of laughter.

“I see what you missed,” she says, arching her back and flexing the muscles of her belly to give Siril a better show. “So I ought not worry as the soldiers of men did of what their wives might do, left at home with no husbands in their beds” –

Siril laughs, shoves Laerwen down onto the bed and topples with her, reaching to cup her breasts in her hands. Laerwen gives a stifled gasp, and Siril feels the edge of triumph in her laughter at the way her wife responds – just as she always has, as though no seven-year separation has come between them. “Well, those men must have little to give, if they feared their wives would stray,” she says. “Having known the best, how could anything else have satisfied me?”

Laerwen giggles. “Come here, you,” she says, and for a moment the weariness at the corners of her eyes is gone in smile lines and the rigid line of her body softens as she wraps herself around Siril and applies herself to Siril’s clothing as well.

While Laerwen’s hands are busy elsewhere, Siril reaches out as she has longed to do for the fastenings of Laerwen’s braids. “Enough of this,” she whispers, nipping Laerwen’s neck as her fingers slide through the notches of the long braid, then each smaller one woven into it, freeing the crimped waves of Laerwen’s hair until it spills through her fingers like sunshine on the river. She feels the pin in her own hair give way to Laerwen’s clever fingers, feels the tunic fall from her shoulders, and after only a bit more wriggling they are naked together, warmth shuddering through their bodies everywhere they are pressed together – and then Laerwen gives a wicked smile against Siril’s mouth and rolls her to her back.

This is not the only thing they must relearn – there is more to come, Siril knows – but for this one blissful moment, she allows herself to forget it all. The seven years between then and now vanish along with any space between their bodies until there is only them, only this, and everything else – all the rest of the world – can wait.


	25. Part II, Chapter 9

The angle of the sun through the windows has changed, glancing off the sheen of sweat over Siril’s back and making her skin glow soft brown. It is nearly afternoon now, and still they have yet to leave their bed. Laerwen runs her hand down Siril’s side, glorying in the smooth warmth of her bare skin, shifting her hand to cup Siril’s buttock when she reaches it, and Siril giggles.

“I missed you,” she breathes into Laerwen’s shoulder.

“And I you.” It has been so long since she has touched anyone so much, and she has never touched anyone else like this – skin to skin, warm and relaxed, no barriers between them – and her hands roam over Siril’s body as though she can never touch enough.

"You have the finest hair," she muses, separating a tress from the rest and admiring the rich glow in the afternoon light.

Siril laughs. "And you are a silver-tongued liar. It is hardly so fine as all that." But she makes no move to draw away, instead nuzzling closer as Laerwen continues to stroke her hair.

Perhaps another might agree; Laerwen remembers the long, glossy sheets of hair that Siril’s mother and sister had – clearly tended so much more carefully than Siril’s own. But Laerwen sifts her hands through it, admiring the color, the textured half-waves that fly every which way in the aftermath of their exertion. "It is yours, so how can it be anything but perfect?"

"Mmm." Siril kisses her collarbone, noses up against her neck, and laughs. "You smell of sweat and road dust, my love. I have distracted you for long enough, but I laid a tub ready for you hours ago. The water will be cold now, but we can boil some more and prepare a warm bath, if that is your preference."

A warm bath. Laerwen has not had one of those in so long that she has almost come to wonder if they truly exist, or if all her memories were lies. "Truly?"

Siril smiles against her neck and tucks a kiss behind her ear. "Truly," she promises. "Whatever you desire." She makes no move to rise.

"Hmm," Laerwen teases. "Whatever I desire? Then I say no bath, and you must stay here with me." She tightens her arms around Siril.

She can hardly believe that this is real – surely at any moment it will all vanish and she will be back in her tent on the hard ground, back before those gates of dread, back in the days of endless battles and heaped bodies and haunting screams. Her dreams have never lied to her before, but after all she has seen and all she has done, how can it be that she has come back to this?

How can it be that everything is as it was before?

* * *

It is not. Of course it is not.

For those first few, precious hours Laerwen is safe from it: relearning her home and her wife and the comfort of being safe once more. She sinks into the tub of warm water with a groan that lets out seven years’ worth of stored tension, and Siril laughs at the bliss on her face before sliding in behind her.

The hot water is a greater pleasure than anything Laerwen has known in all her time away – but Siril is greater still, and Laerwen cannot concentrate on anything so long as her wife sits so close to her, breasts and belly pressed up against Laerwen’s back, her thighs parted around Laerwen’s hips, her hands sliding soap through Laerwen’s hair in long strokes that set her blood simmering hotter than the bathwater. As before, in bed, they linger in the tub far longer than they should – linger until the water has gone cold around them, and then Siril laughs, asks Laerwen teasingly if she ought to boil more.

Laerwen laughs as well, but even as she does, something inside her is sinking, fading.

After that it is fast. Afterglow fades as quickly as the warmth from the bathwater, until the comfort of her new arrival has faded and left nothing but the tepid daze that has held her for the last years.

Better that, at least, than the chill of memory.

Siril does not ask her for stories of her time at war; does not ask her to describe the armies they fought beside or against. Does not ask her to delve into her griefs and fears and newfound responsibilities. She merely touches her with gentle hands and looks at her with those beautiful brown eyes that promise to listen, if she wishes to share. That promise a safe place for her words, if she can bring herself to speak them.

She cannot.

She accompanies her father, their first few days at home, on his visits to the families of those who fell. The responsibility is not for her to take on, perhaps, not yet – but it is not truly his either, and yet he has inherited it just as surely as he has command over the armies, the palace, the treasury. His father’s mistakes are his own, just as is everything else Oropher owned.

And one day it may all be Laerwen’s as well.

Not everyone forgives them – but even the most bereaved seem moved by the sight of Thranduil on his knees, humble before his subjects as he never bowed to Elrond or Gil-galad or Isildur. This, Laerwen understands again, is what it means to rule – or at least what it means to rule here: to bow before one’s subjects, for they mean more than the grandest lords of other countries.

And to do wrong. To do wrong, and make wrong choices, and to understand them and move beyond them – or be swept away in the tide of your own regret and your people’s censure.

She is not yet certain she will not be swept away herself.

She follows him, as she has done for years, as she has known only to do. She follows him to his council chambers; she hears the reports from her mother and those who have remained on domestic situations and the state of the forest.

Siril comes, as well, but she does not accompany Laerwen. She comes to speak of the forest’s enchanted defenses; the state of the guilds and hospitals; the tasks that once belonged to Laerwen and have now, it seems, passed to her.

She has been learning, Laerwen realizes. All this time that she herself has been learning of war, of the bleakness and terror of responsibility, Siril has been truly learning how to live, how to grow with her kingdom the way Cuindis promised so long ago they would grow together.

Can they grow together, still?

Can Laerwen grow beyond this at all?

* * *

Siril does not know what to do.

That first day, she dared to hope that all would be as it was before – but that hope lasted only long enough for the sweat to dry on their skin before something in Laerwen seemed to draw closed like shutters over a window, leaving her distant and cold.

They spend every day together, both speaking up in meetings with Thranduil and Cuindis in ways that they never did before; they share the same domestic trifles that they did before – but there is something missing in them, some warmth, some understanding. Laerwen has closed herself off from Siril just as she did when she was away, her conversation as terse as her letters ever were. 

They have not so much as kissed since the first day of Laerwen’s return, and Siril does not understand. But she has tried all she can to entice Laerwen to speak. Her gentle invitations to share seem to flit past Laerwen’s understanding like wind against a stone, just as unnoticed. She tries silence at telling moments, and that has always worked before – she does not need to speak for Laerwen to understand when she is asking.

At least, she never has before.

But nothing about the way things are is like they were before; they play through the motions of their daily routine but without the same feeling, the understanding that has always guided them. They are two dancers performing the steps of a long-practiced routine . . . but side-by-side only, not together. They lack the _presence_, the communication between bodies and souls that makes it new every time.

They have had times like this before, Siril tries to remind herself, times they were out of synchronization, times their steps did not match up. Always before they have found their way back. But never has there been something so vast between them: war, loss, death – a chasm of seven years that Siril worries Laerwen was swallowed up in, somewhere along the way.

They cannot go on this way.

The moment that her frustration peaks comes out of nowhere. They are walking home together from yet another meeting with Thranduil, Cuindis, and the advisors, chattering about nothing of import.

Rather, Siril chatters. She feels like a squirrel, prattling on about nothing, merely because she cannot bear the silence. It is not her way, and Laerwen has never made her feel that she needs to fill silences before – but this is different: Laerwen is a wall of ice, her body stiff, her face clear of expression like a pond in midwinter. Siril talks and talks, as though hoping to warm it somehow with enough words, with enough effort, but her words merely freeze against it; the distress and upset builds in her stomach, drawing tighter the knot that has been there for so long – and finally it is too much. Finally, after weeks of holding it in, she can bear it no longer.

“If you would rather I said nothing, then tell me!” she cries at last, her voice echoing in the stone hall outside their chambers. “Tell me, and I will fall silent for another seven years, if that is what you desire of me! Or perhaps I might turn my attention to the stone wall, which would surely be gladder to have me as a wife!”

Laerwen flinches, and for half a second Siril is glad of it: let her _react_ to something for once, let her be stung in the way that she herself has been for so long. But the twisted satisfaction lasts only so long as the motion, and then she sees the hurt in Laerwen’s eyes and feels it doubled on her own soul.

“Oh, Laerwen,” she whispers, overcome by remorse. “_Melethril_, I am so sorry, _dannan am ochin nîn ob hen_, forgive me” –

“No,” Laerwen says softly, and reaches out to take her hand – and for the first time since that first day, the gesture feels more than perfunctory. “No, Siril, my love – forgive _me_.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” Siril swallows. “I should have – I should” –

“Come,” Laerwen says quietly, gesturing to the door. “Let us go inside, that we might have this out where fewer ears are poised to hear us.”

As soon as the door to their chambers is closed behind them, Siril bursts into tears.

“Love, no,” says Laerwen, catching her shoulders. “No, do not weep – you were right to demand an apology; I have been a sorry excuse for a spouse” –

“No,” sobs Siril. She cannot remember the last time she has wept thus and she tries to stop the tears – how dare she impose this on Laerwen as well? But she cannot stop; it feels that all the suppressed pain of their separation, body and soul alike, all the fear of the last seven years, the heady decisive grief of breaking at last with her own family, only to feel so at odds with the one she has chosen – all of it wells up within her, and now it pours out of her in a flood of tears she cannot quell. “No, you have not. It is only – I cannot understand what you have gone through, Laerwen. I should never have snapped at you so; you deserve to come to terms with whatever you experienced on your own” –

“And you deserve better than to be shut out while I do so.” Laerwen guides her to the bed and presses her into sitting. “Would you hear, then? I do not know all of what is in my mind, but I will do my best to tell you.”

Siril takes three deep breaths, counting slowly as she does so. Draws a hand across her eyes. And nods.

Laerwen sits on the bed beside her, her legs tucked beneath her, facing Siril. The silence stretches for a long, long moment, and then Laerwen reaches forward again and takes Siril’s hands. Her own are as hard and callused as ever, but their grip gentle.

“Do you know,” she says softly, “I had never understood what it meant that I might take the throne someday.” She looks out somewhere over Siril’s head, as though gazing into the murky conditional future. “I was so far from the task that I could not even fathom that my father and grandfather had named a line of succession.” She lets out a huff of air that might be a laugh, were it not so distant and sad. “And then I woke from unconsciousness in a healing tent and heard my father named _majesty_, and life itself felt suddenly like the thinnest strand of cobweb, so easily snapped.”

Siril cannot think of a thing to say. Now is not the time to apologize again, and it is clear Laerwen has a point, though she has not made it yet. But already this is more comfortable: the onus is not on her to fill the silence, and at last Laerwen is open to her once more.

“They will not sing of the great deeds the folk of the Greenwood performed in the battle,” Laerwen continues, her voice distant, “save the first rush, in which more than half of their soldiers perished. They will sing of Oropher’s fierce spirit and lament his tragic death, but they will not sing of Thranduil.”

“Why not?” Siril asks, because it seems she is expected to.

Laerwen smiles slightly. “Because he followed orders,” she says. “Because he bowed his head to the High Kings and did as they bade him.”

Siril remembers her conversation with Cuindis about the Silvan people and the line of Oropher, about the stubborn pride that drew them together. “Why?” She feels absurdly as though she is following some script that only reveals itself to her as the time comes for her next line.

And now it is time for the grand revelation, it seems, for Laerwen clutches her hands and snaps her gaze to Siril’s. “Because otherwise we would have died,” she says fiercely. “We would have all been wiped out, and – who knows what would have become of the Enemy and his forces, but ours would have been weaker because of it. We would all have perished had he not submitted, and he knew it, though he hated it. I too chafed to break free for every minute of it, but – we would _all_ have died. And I understood for the first time that my father bargained with more lives than his own.” The corners of her mouth soften downward. “I understood that to lead means to give up some of one’s own _self_. And though I have not had to bear that burden myself, I think I have given something up anyway, and I know not how to find it again.”

Laerwen’s eyes have turned pleading – and as helpless as she has felt of late, Siril finally feels that perhaps she can aid. “While you were . . . away, your mother too taught me to lead,” she says. “Only our lessons were of necessity different. I too learned that the beauty of the kingdom is in those who make it up – but I did not need a soldier’s discipline. I learned that to _guide_ with a gardener’s hand is all that is necessary here, for just as plants will grow on their own if tended well, so too will our people flourish if nurtured with loving hands.”

“I have always found such strength in your gentleness,” Laerwen whispers. “But I have forgotten how to emulate it for myself. I am sorry, _melethril_ – it is I who ought to apologize to you. But it feels that the years I was away were a lifetime of learning to harden, to be ruthless, in the hopes of protecting. I have forgotten how to be soft.”

“Do not apologize for that,” says Siril fiercely. She cannot understand what her wife has experienced, and she knows she could not make the choices that Laerwen and Thranduil have had to make, or to anticipate making. Siril, after all, has never had to fear leading alone.

But neither does Laerwen.

“Do not apologize,” she repeats, “but do not fear, either. You are not alone in this – in your fears of the future or in your struggles with yourself. I am by your side, as I always will be. I will balance your sword-arm with my gardening hand, and I will help you find your softness once more.”

Laerwen’s face _crumples_. She sags forward like ivy without a supporting cane, and brings her forehead to rest against Siril’s, her hair falling around both of their faces: a veil enclosing them in their own private world.

“Thank you, my love,” she whispers, and her eyes shine with tears. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END OF PART II.


	26. Part III: Darkening, Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been some thousand years since the Last Alliance against Sauron, and life in the Greenwood has settled back into its rhythm. But of late a strange feeling of unease has settled over the kingdom... and when investigating it, Cuindis discovers an unexpected foe that threatens to change their way of life for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've provided a summary for the chapter because I don't know how well the story stands on its own in this case. Not to do more wailing about how unsatisfied I am with my writing in the notes, but I've lost all sense of how well this story works for people who aren't me. Hopefully our shift into this next stage isn't too jarring!

Something is not right.

Cuindis tilts her head, listening carefully to the forest-speech around her, trying to identify whatever it was that sparked her unease. This is not a new feeling; a strange gloom has been creeping over the kingdom for some time now, so subtle it took them long to notice – but never has she felt it in such a concentrated way, or so clearly – with so little room for doubt. 

But – if something is so wrong – why has the forest gone silent?

There are no animals, she realizes, no rustlings of squirrels or twittering birds, not even the faint fluttering of moth wings. And the song of the trees has indeed gone silent, but not in the way it does when they are sleeping or uninterested in speech. It is as if something has _dampened_ it, fallen over them so that they cannot communicate with her –

Something behind her rustles. Louder than an animal, but too quiet to be an orc or man or any accustomed foe. Cuindis whirls around and _stares_.

And then, without a second thought, turns and runs.

She can hear it behind her, a click-scuttling gait that assures her that her eyes did not deceive her. She can hardly bring herself to believe the evidence of her senses, but she cannot spare the energy for thought. Her instinct has never before been to run from an unfamiliar being, nor even to fight it – but she _knows_ with a certainty that cannot be denied that this creature means her harm; there is a knife at her belt but she did not bring her bow today; with such a flimsy weapon she has no hope but flight –

It is fast, too fast, but she is faster; she knows had she spared any second longer for hesitation she would already be snapped up in its jaws or its pincers; she hurtles through the forest, ducking beneath low-hanging branches with an easy grace that does not slow her down, but she hears them thwacking against the carapace of the hideous creature behind her; her hair is coming loose from its braids, twigs snagging and snapping off in the curls, but she cannot focus on that, cannot –

“Your Majesty?” The voice grows louder and more alarmed with every syllable as she draws nearer, still sprinting with all she has. Thank goodness she has crossed the path of a patrol; she knows not how much longer she can sustain this pace – she can only hope they are as prepared for action as they claim. “Do you” –

The voice stops short. He has seen what follows her.

She has scant breath left, but she cries, “Shoot!” and throws herself to the ground, her trust in them the only hope she has.

It is not misplaced. Half a pause, an inchoate indrawn breath, and then arrows whine past her; she hears them clattering off the creature’s armor like hail, hears a horrifying scream and a terrible squelching noise –

And a thud as the creature falls to the ground.

Breathing hard, Cuindis uncurls herself from her defensive position on the ground and rises, brushing dirt off her trousers and turning slowly around. The archers who saved her move forward, coming to stand beside her as they all stare at the dying . . . thing.

“What,” says one of them in a hushed voice that indicates he would like to include some stronger language, “is that?”

Cuindis tugs a leaf free of her knotted curls, the absentminded motion more for want of something to do with her hand than anything else, and gazes down at the curled legs and glazed, milky eyes of the massive spider that pursued her across half the forest.

“Trouble,” is all she can think to say.

* * *

They carry the spider’s carcass back to the palace.

It is grotesque, repellent work. The black blood oozing from the spider’s arrow wounds burns their skin when they touch it, and Cuindis can only assume the thing is venomous. Well, it is certainly unnatural – not of this world, created by some foul dark sorcery and –

And inflicted on their forest.

No one can bear to touch the creature for long enough to carry it back, so they weave a sling of vines, such as they would have used to transport their own injured or dead. But they ought not leave it where it is – it would be best for other warriors to inspect it and see what it is, or if it is known to them. And if they know it not, Cuindis senses that they soon will in days to come.

Word of their approach must have been passed along by the plants and animals they pass, for elves emerge from their _telain_ to gawk at the passing procession and the dead abomination they carry.

When they arrive at the palace, some of the warriors are already assembled, Thranduil and Laerwen at the front. They rush forward at Cuindis’s approach, Thranduil to take her arm, and Laerwen past her to get a better look at the spider.

She recoils as she draws near to it, and lets out a curse that Cuindis certainly did not teach her – but she is too shaken right now to rebuke her for it. “Elbereth, what is that?”

Cuindis shakes her head. The energy from her dash through the forest is beginning to wear off; her knees shake and Thranduil slides an arm around her waist. “I know not, but it is certainly not our friend.”

Laerwen turns to look at her and blinks, taking in her bedraggled appearance. “Are you all right?” she asks urgently. “Did it attack you?”

A wave of wistfulness overtakes Cuindis at the sight of her daughter’s solicitousness – when did it come to be that her daughter became so conscientious, that she now thinks it her duty to look after her mother? “It tried,” she says, “but I am unscathed, if” – and she tugs at her knotted hair ruefully – “a bit worse for wear.”

Thranduil’s fingers slide into the curls at the nape of her neck; he gives her the slightest flash of a mischievous smile, as if to say _we will soon have that sorted out_. But his shoulders straighten with the carriage of a commander-king, and his voice takes on the ring of authority. “You all, have this beast brought to Alugail for examination; if any can determine its origins, she can. We will send out an extra patrol – if not more – to sweep our borders for more of these creatures, but I would have some intelligence on its origins first, so we may know how best to arm ourselves. Laerwen, inform my commanders and advisors that we are to convene in the council chambers at sundown to hear the researchers’ preliminary findings.”

“Yes, sire,” she says, lays a hand on Cuindis’s arm for one moment, and rushes off, as the elves from the patrol heave their unnatural burden up once more and trundle off in the direction of Alugail’s research laboratories.

And then they are alone at last, and Thranduil draws his arm tighter around Cuindis’s shoulders. “Are you all right?” he asks finally. “In spirit, I mean?”

She shrugs, unable to keep a smile steady on her lips. “I know not,” she confesses. “I am well enough, and have escaped, but” – She shudders. “I cannot shake the feeling that something is about to go horribly wrong.”

* * *

“We cannot determine its origins.”

Alugail brings them the report from the laboratories where she reigns with herbs and metals and heavy lore-books, having retired from her work in the hospitals. She is disheveled and grimy, her braids coming free of their fastenings, her clothing stained with the black blood of the spider, and her face set grimly. “The thing matches nothing I have ever seen, and reacts differently to various substances than any normal creature,” she says. “I have no guess as to what it is – beyond the obvious: that it is a predator, meant to kill, and a clear danger to us.”

Thranduil sweeps his gaze over the assembled advisors: he has gathered them all here, for such an unnatural creature is a threat to them in every capacity – his mind has clearly already reached beyond the mere military to the potential economic and diplomatic consequences. “What of any of you?” he asks. “If our researchers have no knowledge of this thing, I cannot believe it is anything natural to this land. But does it match anything in legends I do not know, in song or story if not in memory itself?”

Most of the Silvan advisors shake their heads, which does not surprise Cuindis. Nothing like this exists in their memory or myth.

“Dravaor?” Thranduil nods at his friend, one of the few Sindarin advisors, whose face is crumpled in a half-frown.

“I do not know,” ze says slowly, “but I have heard tell of vast spiders in only one tale of lore – older than we are, old as the making of the world itself. _Ungol,_” ze stresses, using the Sindarin word for _spider_ that is not quite the same in the Silvan dialect. “I hesitate to believe a relation of something so foul could have inhabited our realm, but . . .”

The flash of horror in Thranduil’s eyes likely goes unnoticed by any who do not know him as well as Cuindis. “Darkness incarnate,” he murmurs, “a soul hungry for the world itself. Well.” He gazes around the table. “If this speculation has even the slightest grain of truth – and even if it does not – such a plague cannot be allowed to infest our forest. I would have a patrol set out to where my wife first encountered this dread creature, in the hopes of tracking its path back to its source and rooting it out before it can take further hold. Do I have volunteers?”

Most of the military leaders raise their hands; Thranduil appoints Laerwen and Maeglad to lead the group, instructing them to select the warriors they most trust with the task. But before he can instruct them to disperse, Cuindis sits forward.

“I would accompany you,” she says.

One of Thranduil’s eyebrows rises a fraction; otherwise, he shows no reaction. Laerwen, on the other hand, straightens in surprise with an intake of breath as though she would speak – but she subsides at a glance from her father.

“I encountered the first of these beasts,” says Cuindis, though she has not been gainsaid. “I knew the instant something felt wrong, and I will know again when I feel it.” What she does not say is that she can still feel it – that something grates at the edges of her senses, and that she will not be able to rest until she knows what it is – until she can see for herself that it has been removed and balance restored to her home.

“Of course,” says Maeglad. “We will benefit from your aid.”

* * *

It has been long since Cuindis has accompanied warriors on a patrol. She is no stranger to expeditions to the outer bounds even of the forest, for she has often traveled with small parties to neighboring kingdoms, but when a member of the royal family is needed to inspect something that the patrols have found, it is much more often Thranduil or Laerwen who accompanies.

Now, of course, Cuindis’s daughter is here with her as well, and though she never raises her voice, she is in obvious command of the mission. It makes Cuindis swell with pride to see the way the other soldiers – many older than she is – defer to her: to see the respect she has won in the long years she has fought for and with them, all the years she has worked for their realm and their safety.

But she is surprised at how lighthearted the warriors are, even amidst the gravity of their errand. Serious when needed, of course – they dismiss no suggestions or possible sources of danger – but they while away the journey with tales and jests; they take the time to greet the small creatures who cross their paths. And while they do not cast aside their edge of caution, neither do they silence their song entirely, humming snippets of harmony against the intertwining melodies of the surrounding forest.

Cuindis feels it first, a shiver stealing over her soul – but it is not long before the forest begins to reflect it back at them. The cheerful chatter of trees softens into a wary rustling of leaves and murmuring of disquiet; the elves in turn drop their song and fall silent. Cuindis is not an especially skilled warrior, not compared to some, but few in the realm can match her for stealth – Thranduil once laughingly commented that the forest itself seemed to bend aside for her.

They creep on silent feet through the deepening darkness; the trees are thicker here and the darkness almost absolute, so they are forced to resort to feeling their way through the thickets using sound and sense. But it is more difficult here, with the uncanny quiet of the trees – there are fewer markers of where they are and where to move, and their pace slows . . . slows . . .

It grows colder as well, a chill that bothers not Cuindis’s skin but her soul, like snow deep inside her belly. She shivers, but it is no use.

And then she sees them.

Three shadows, different from the darkness of the rest of the forest because they are – darker. They would not be colorful in daylight, a color merely robbed from them by the absence of light. They are the absence themselves, hollows that could not be lit even under the sun. The thought of staring at them in daylight makes Cuindis’s eyes water. And they are the source of the cold without a doubt; it radiates off them in bone-chilling waves so powerful that they draw the eyes of the party –

And one of them turns its hooded head to stare directly at Cuindis.

Its eyes are not worthy of the word, but whatever they are, they are magnetic, and she cannot look away. She can see the exact moment they perceive her stare, because the hypnotic force sharpens on her and a bolt of ice jabs straight into her heart.

She does not cry out. A breath sands out of her throat, steam in the chill air, and then all her senses fade into nothingness.

* * *

Cuindis wakes abruptly, gasping out of a dream of indistinct shadows and blinking into disoriented consciousness. Where is she? How did she come to be here? The room around her is smooth stone, air moving in from the wide windows – cold. Too cold. She shivers violently, hugging her arms around herself, but it does no good; the chill is inside.

“She wakes.” The voice beside her is familiar, at first, but in her blurred half-sleep state it takes her long moments to place it – at least until Thranduil is standing beside her, one of her hands enclosed in both of his.

The touch is almost warm, but not quite. She shudders again, and her teeth chatter.

“Cuindis?” he says, very soft. “Do you know me?”

“Thranduil,” she croaks.

“Yes.” He breathes out, long and relieved. “How do you feel?”

“Cold,” she murmurs. “And confused. How did I come to be here?”

“Here.” Ecthoron, Alugail’s successor as head physician, comes to her with a cup of something warm and herbal. The steam is comforting, at least for a moment, and Cuindis presses the cup between her hands and breathes it in while she waits for an answer.

“We carried you back,” comes Laerwen’s voice, and her daughter strides into view – still in her armor, but her braids have been loosened and Siril stands by her side. “We all felt the chill you describe, but none of us were so stricken as you. What do you remember?”

Cuindis shivers at the thought and takes a sip of the tea; it warms her belly for a moment before dissipating again in the cold. “Something terrible,” she says, for the memory of the shadow arises in her mind. “Something that lurked in the shadows – but it was like a shadow itself? I believe . . .”

“Nazgûl,” says Laerwen, her voice hard. “A Ringwraith.”

Cuindis shudders. She heard the stories of the creatures that her husband and daughter faced so long ago, that brought such terror to the attacking armies that they felt as if they themselves were under siege. The creatures from –

“No,” she whispers. “This does not mean” –

“We will have to patrol out farther to see,” Thranduil says, and in his eyes is a weariness beyond the thousands of years he has lived. “But I think it cannot mean anything other than that our Enemy has returned – and that he has set his sights on our home.”


	27. Part III, Chapter 2

Thranduil leads the next patrol himself, Laerwen accompanying as his second, before Cuindis has even been released from the infirmary. They have an idea of who their enemy is, now, so they know to be careful – but they cannot leave it at this, not without knowing for certain.

While they are away, she sets herself to the task of recovering. The chill inside her is tenacious, but her spirit is more stubborn still; she shoves it down, determined to warm her soul by sheer force of will. She drives herself once more to stand, to walk, without steadying herself on the walls.

Still, every step is an effort of will. Always in the past she has found relief from ailments of the spirit merely from sitting quiet in the forest, opening herself up to the world around her, breathing in its strength and life. But that is no longer the case; now, it is as though the air around her _responds_ to the blight on her spirit, feeding it, reacting with it, sickness reverberating off sickness until she can hardly stand – until she can hardly bear the very air. And the herbs the healers have found are palliative only; already she can sense that nothing but the healing of the forest itself will root out this dread thing inside her.

But if that is how it must be, thus it will be – she will fight it with will alone if she must. Thranduil will need her. The kingdom will need her.

She will not let them down.

* * *

“It has taken Amon Lanc.”

Thranduil practically spits the words, the first he utters while striding back into their throne room, the rest of his soldiers straggling behind him. Cuindis sweeps her eyes over them – Laerwen is unharmed, thank goodness, if weary and bloodstained, but – but they come back with only half as many soldiers as they sent out, a week ago, to investigate the source of the darkness.

“Amon Lanc?” She sits up straight, but does not stand to greet them. She will need all her energy for this conversation; she cannot spend it on the effort of rising. “The abandoned fortress in the south?”

“Yes.” Thranduil’s jaw is a scimitar: sharp and curved and steel. “He establishes himself in our territory, he fills it with his nightmare creatures and sends them to torment us; he forces us back and back and slaughters our people like” –

“He?” asks Cuindis, though darkness is closing in like a curtain over her heart. If Thranduil has not named him, that means his suspicions of before were right – that they have learned the identity of their foe, and that it is just what they feared. She clings to the arms of her seat and stays upright through will alone, even though she knows what Thranduil will say.

But to her surprise it is Laerwen who answers, her eyes haunted, her face streaked with soot – or is that black blood? “He,” she says, as though every word must be dragged out of her. “The Enemy we thought defeated a thousand years ago has indeed taken up residence in our kingdom.”

Cuindis closes her eyes and feels the world cascading down around her.

* * *

Cuindis thought she had understood life as the wife of a general – thought, every night that Thranduil returned too late to their chambers, every day of those seven years of their long separation, that she understood what it meant to live a military life.

She was wrong.

After those first days, it happens somehow both slowly and all at once: long periods of slow-creeping dismay that blur time into nothing, followed by sudden instants of panic and terror that reveal just how far they have fallen, just how much time has passed – and over the years following that first encounter with the wretched spiders, Cuindis watches her home descend into war.

She sits in the throne beside her husband's as general after general comes to report news of fear and loss: of areas of their territory lost to the invading wraiths, of elves wounded or killed by the beasts that have come to terrorize them. She hears reports from her own daughter, not as a child but as a general herself, bowing her head as she brings her king and commander worse news. She listens to the panicked litanies of those who come bearing witness that the creeping gloom is more than just spiders and wraiths: those whose favorite trees have stopped talking to them, those who have found beloved springs tainted and bitter. She listens to them beg the crown for aid, and she looks over at Thranduil, his face growing grimmer and grimmer as he sends out another round of soldiers who they already know will bring back only more bad news – and she understands, as she never has before, what it is to be under siege.


	28. Part III, Chapter 3

Siril trips through her dreams tonight, stumbling from one overgrown path to the next, unable to see more than the tangled vines and gnarled roots before her, always sensing a lurking danger ahead – but unable to do aught but keep moving. Even when she abandons one dream-path for the next, she is still faced with the same obstacles: a familiar forest made strange by darkness and gloom; once-friendly paths and glades now shaded and hidden from view.

It has been thus ever oftener lately – since the shadow of the world’s great enemy fell upon their woods – the healing and peace she seeks from her dreams twisted as more and more of their territory falls prey to the creatures of evil and the breath of the void.

She gives up on reverie with an abrupt gasp back to full consciousness, sitting up in bed – still alone. Her dreams are always more peaceful when Laerwen lies beside her, but the nights have grown longer and lonelier of late, as Laerwen accompanies fighting and scouting parties alike – or sits long with her father awaiting the return of warriors she sent out.

Siril passes a hand over her face, pushing back the weariness and worry, feeling like she has spent the last hour running in truth rather than dreaming. Just as she has begun to ponder rising and dressing, the door to their chambers bangs open.

_Laerwen!_ It is her first, sickening thought – that something terrible has befallen her wife and she is to receive the message. But before she can do anything more than kick away her light blanket, the door to the bedroom opens as well, and Laerwen herself enters – whole as ever, but with dark hollows beneath her grey eyes.

“Laerwen?” Siril says urgently, sweeping her eyes over her wife’s body. She can find nothing amiss, no bloodstains or favoring of any limb that indicate a sign of a wound – but that, of course, says nothing of the state of Laerwen’s spirit. “Laerwen, are you well?”

Laerwen bursts into tears.

“Laerwen!” Siril springs from the bed without any further hesitation, rushes to close the door behind Laerwen and guide her to the bed. “_Melethril_, beloved, my sweet.” Laerwen’s shoulders heave beneath Siril’s arm, but she weeps in near silence, her hands pressed to her face, and Siril strokes her shoulders and wraps them both in blankets, murmuring soothing nonsense all the while. Laerwen’s control is as close to absolute as Siril has seen from anyone but Thranduil himself; if she has allowed herself to break down now, it means she will talk when she is ready.

“Filigon died,” Laerwen says at last, leaning her head against Siril’s shoulder, her golden braid kinking in the folds of their shared covers. She sniffs and wipes her face with a corner of the blanket.

Siril rubs her shoulder in sympathy and waits. There is more to this story, it is clear. Not that one death would not be enough, but Laerwen has seen too many over the years for this to reduce her to tears.

After a long moment, Laerwen takes a shaky breath. Her hair is still cold from the air outside, but it warms against Siril’s neck, and Siril kisses the top of her head. “Our party was greeted by one of those _rhachonnen_ wraiths,” Laerwen continues. “We had come prepared only to fight spiders, but it had ventured in closer than before and we were caught unawares. Filigon was our rearguard, and” – She swallows, another sob choking in her throat.

“Whenever you are ready,” Siril says, though her own belly goes cold with dread at the thought of their foe venturing further in yet – carving away yet another piece of their world for his own, sending his servants to torment them. And had she not already hated Sauron for who he was, she would despise him still more for the way Laerwen sits beside her, the strong line of her body crumpled into a defeated huddle against Siril’s side.

“The thing looked at him,” Laerwen says softly, “the way it does – the penetrating gaze.” She shudders and Siril holds her close. Most of their warriors have felt this gaze by now; Siril herself has not experienced the full force of a Nazgûl’s stare before, but she has been near enough to them to understand the soul-deep coldness. She is told that the sensation of direct eye contact is sharper, more piercing – as if the force of that chill has been condensed into an icicle and driven through the body. Few have experienced it without succumbing to unconsciousness – or worse. _Daelglind_, they have come to name it. Some weather it better than others – but even this, she thinks, is not enough to explain tonight. Not for Laerwen.

“He did not swoon,” Laerwen continues, “but stood transfixed in its gaze – and while it had him captive, it turned that stare on all the rest of us, until we could not move – could hardly remember where our arms were, let alone how to strike.” She shivers and huddles closer, and Siril draws the blanket tighter around her. It would be no use to ask Laerwen to see the healers for her own Daelglind; as long as she is on her feet, Laerwen will take no care for herself. “And while we all stood useless, it caught Filigon by the shoulder and drew its blade – that horrible thing that gleams like an empty space in the night. But even then it did not strike; it merely stared at him as though memorizing how to steal his soul. ’We shall see if you can find death in the nightmare-realm,’ it said, and instead of dealing a killing blow, it drew the blade across his cheek instead – a mere touch, almost a tease, but even the slightest touch of that blade proves mortal.

“He fell, and the rest of us broke free of its spell then – but we were clumsy and startled, and it melted back into the trees before we could apprehend it – not that it would have done any good; we have no prison that could hold it and our blades cannot harm it. But we had no thought of pursuing; we turned to Filigon instead.” Laerwen presses her lips together for a moment. “His eyes were dull and lifeless, and we thought he had been slain – but then a moment later they came alive with panic, and he caught my wrist and held tight. ‘I cannot find it!’ he said. ‘Help me find it!’ And he would say nothing but that – _help me_ – again and again, even as the life faded from his eyes. We could feel him slipping away – but his spirit did not leave him, as though it were still somehow tethered to his body. As though,” she closes her eyes, “we think, we think he tried to separate his soul from his body and was unable to do so. As though the touch of the wraith’s blade had somehow locked them together and was draining them together into nothing.”

Siril shudders, a shiver sneaking through her as well, and pulls the blankets tighter around them both. The night outside their windows feels suddenly alive with vicious shadow-tendrils snaking in to steal their souls. “What did you do?” she asks, holding Laerwen tighter against her.

“I killed him.” Laerwen turns her face against Siril’s shoulder. “May he forgive me for it in the Halls, if indeed he was able to flee there, but – I slit his throat, praying that if I freed his body from its torment, his spirit would be set loose as well.” Her breath hitches and she lets out another dry sob into Siril’s neck, but no tears fall. “I had no time to think; he was slipping away as I watched, and I prayed that if his death was dealt by a friendly hand, he might find the peace he sought – but I” – Another hoarse sob, and Siril holds her tighter, her own eyes burning, understanding now her wife’s distress. “I hate this!” Laerwen cries at last, her hands fisting in the blanket; Siril hears the straining and snapping of seams. “I despise this shadow in our forest; I detest the fear we must live with; and I _loathe_ that there is so little I can do to stop it! Our people are in danger every day; we are dying every day, and I can do _nothing_ to prevent it!”

Siril can say nothing to soothe her. “I know,” she says. “I feel as you do – the forest is sickening as surely as we are; it is smothering under the weight of the darkness – and I can do even less than you can to defend us.”

There is another long pause, and at last Laerwen looks up, her eyes red-rimmed, her lips taut. “Siril,” she says.

“Laerwen.” Siril’s nerves thrum at the seriousness in Laerwen’s voice, but she holds her voice as steady as her wife’s.

“I wish I did not have to say this,” Laerwen says, “but there is something we need to do.”

* * *

“Are you sure this is your choice?” Laerwen cannot help asking, for the third time. “Would not the bow, or” –

“I choose this.” Siril’s voice is steady, but her hands shake; Laerwen firms her grip around them so the practice sword will not fall to the ground. “I will have the courage to look death in the face, should I be forced to deal it.”

“I hope you will not; you know this.” Laerwen tightens her arms around Siril’s own for just a moment, holding rather than guiding. “You will not be called to accompany any missions of war; I will never count you a soldier. But” – But after last night – after years of siege – they can take no chance. No one can be allowed ignorance in the way of weapons, not anymore.

“I know,” Siril says. “I know.”

Laerwen guides her arms into a ready defensive stance, wraps her hands around Siril’s on the hilt of the sword, urges her feet backward into an exact mimicry of Laerwen’s own stance. “Good,” she murmurs, holding Siril steady in that position. “Do you understand the feeling?”

“Yes.” Siril rocks backward, then forward, learning the form and the distribution of her body. She will have to find her own balance in this position; she is larger than Laerwen and her weight distributed differently; Laerwen loosens her hold to nothing more than steadying hands on Siril’s arms, an aid for balance, should she need it. But Siril moves with a dancer’s grace, and Laerwen soon lets go entirely, stepping back and moving around her to ensure that her grip remains correct.

“Yes, like that,” she murmurs, and comes back around to stand behind Siril again. “Now move your arm down, and shift your weight – yes, thus . . .”

She guides Siril carefully through the most basic steps of defense. They will study this before anything; Siril will learn to protect her own life before she is forced to learn the choice that was laid so starkly out to Laerwen, a dozen _yéni_ ago now: _your life or theirs_. It is easier to slay orcs and spiders than it ever was to kill men; she prays Siril will never have to know more than this, but – but still. Laerwen has learned to live with bloodstained hands, but that duty was never meant to fall upon Siril’s shoulders.

“What is it?” says Siril.

Laerwen blinks back into the moment, first assessing every part of her body to see if her grip has slackened or tightened while she was lost in thought. She can find no change in her own stance, so it seems Siril merely knows – that she can hear the frenetic workings of Laerwen’s mind as well as she ever has.

She sighs, allowing her head to sink against Siril’s. “You know what.”

Siril brings their joined hands down along with the sword and turns, her dark eyes catching Laerwen’s with their gleam of understanding. “I do not resent this, if that is what you fear,” she whispers. “At least, I do not resent you. And I would do my part to combat this darkness just as much as you do.”

“I know.” Laerwen closes her eyes and breathes in the warm scent of Siril’s hair. “I suppose I am merely afraid – more so than you are, it seems; your courage puts me to shame.”

“I am terrified, my love.” One of Siril’s arms wraps behind her to pull Laerwen closer; for a moment the blunt wooden sword-tip rests against the ground, forgotten, and they are alone in their embrace. “I am terrified of fighting, terrified of having to spill blood or have my own spilled in return, terrified of what will happen to our home. But I trust in your parents, and I trust in you. I hold to you, even as I wonder every day if the time has come that you will be torn away. And if learning these skills will help me cling the tighter, then there is no choice to be made, and the rewards are greater than the fear.”

“I am afraid, too,” Laerwen confesses. “But I fear for” – She gulps. “It is not that I do not trust you to know your own mind or your heart; it is only – even as you cling to me, so have I always clung to your compassion, your softness. And I fear what will become of our whole world if your soul becomes as hardened as my own.”

“Then you do not see in yourself what I see in you.” Siril draws back from Laerwen and cups her cheek in one large, soft-fingered hand. “You have not lost your softness, my love. You have not left compassion behind. And I trust that if you can endure all that has already tried your soul and still look at me with such tenderness in your eyes” – her finger traces Laerwen’s lower lip, and Laerwen shivers – “that I will not lose my own love for all that lives and grows. _Vines that grow and bloom together,_” she reminds Laerwen of her mother’s words, so long ago. “We will be those, my beloved, my darling. Do not fear for me.”

“I cannot promise that,” Laerwen breathes, her throat closing up, “but I will do my best.”

“Good.” Siril leans forward for a kiss, the slightest cling of lips. “Then show me again how I am to stand.”

* * *

“_Mirkwood,_” Cuindis spits.

Laerwen frowns. Thranduil raises one eyebrow. “Pardon?”

Cuindis shucks her traveling cloak into a pile on the ground and sinks into a chair in a similar crumpled heap. “Mirkwood,” she says again, her voice weary, but carrying enough venom to make the word into a curse. “That is what they have come to call us, in the neighboring kingdoms. That is how I was hailed by the men when I went to discuss trade.”

Something bitter settles into the core of Laerwen’s stomach – bitter at the men, perhaps, and how they have allowed their disrespect for her home, for her struggle, to permeate their speech – but it is more than that. For some small corner of her mind knows that they are right, that her beloved home has become a land of gloom, where her peace-loving wife need learn how to wield weapons; where her father’s playfulness has been subsumed entirely into the mask of duty and her mother’s face seems carved with lines of exhaustion. Where they all must live in fear and exhaustion and pain –

“Mirkwood,” Thranduil repeats, and his lip curls with distaste – but Laerwen can see in his eyes that his thoughts echo her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
_Daelglind_ = "horror glance" - otherwise known as Black Breath  
_Rhachonnen_ = accursed


	29. Part III, Chapter 4

Cuindis cannot catch her breath.

She pushes branches aside, pressing and contorting herself through spaces that would once not have seemed so impenetrable – indeed, that would once have practically moved aside for her. Never before has moving in the forest felt so laborious.

She cannot see what lies ahead. No matter how she strains her eyes, the tangle of vines and branches will not seem to resolve themselves for her, though always before it would have been a puzzle easily solved by her senses. Never before has she had to try to _know_ where she is in the forest; always before her soul opened easily to the song of the woods and she could sink into it, the song of her spirit in perfect harmony, never a note out of tune.

Not so now.

She leans against a tree trunk and breathes, trying to slow the harsh panting of her breath enough to _listen_. It is opaque and inscrutable here, the mood of the forest impossible to read, though it has always been so easy before – and perhaps it is the shock of it that exhausts her so, that makes the path ahead seem so impossible.

It is the reason she came, of course. If the voices are so dampened to even her ears, it is little wonder their scouting parties have ever come back frustrated and frightened. If there is anyone in the woods suited to understand what is happening, it is she – and it is why she volunteered for this mission despite everything, despite the battle that still rages inside her, that coldness that seems to have taken up residence in her core.

She closes her eyes and strains her ears – trying to hear if anything is different, if anything approaches. Even if the song of the forest is dampened, she ought still to be able to hear the approach of an enemy. For there must be an enemy here, if the forest has become so unresponsive to her coaxing.

After long moments, her breathing finally slows, and she steadies herself against the tree and sinks deeper, listening with her ears and her spirit at the same time, listening for – there!

It is harder to hear now, fainter than ever before or anywhere else closer to their domain, but she hears it at last, the subtle humming of the trees, the way their root systems interlock, the way they touch everything and everyone around them. She listens to that humming, feeling for the spaces between them – the path she is meant to follow – and there!

She turns and beholds the space that she somehow missed before: a path through the tangle of branches. She follows it on tentative feet, padding first along the forest floor, then climbing up into the trees when brambles make that space impassable . . . but she is being guided to something, at last. If there is a foe here that can be fought, she will learn its nature and bring back word to those who are more skilled fighters than she. But in case she is caught unawares . . . and she reaches back and pats the bow slung over her back, feels the reassuring weight of the small knife at her belt. She will be on her guard.

The song fades as she goes on, but still a thread remains, helping her sense the path she follows. But something else rises in the back of her mind, of her throat – a strange, choking unease. Something – unclear. Not right.

She has been listening so hard for the song that it takes her a moment to realize it has changed. It is louder than before, but discordant – clashing, in her mind. Not a warning – not to her – not yet? As though the forest-song is fighting itself, two harmonies sung against one another, but at the same time, tones clanging against each other and sending up an alarm –

She snaps back to herself and looks around – to realize in horror that the trees have closed around her. That her path has vanished and she stands in the middle of a clearing surrounded by dense-packed and gnarled roots, drawing in nearer and nearer to her every moment –

For a moment, all she can do is stare – and then she hears the sounds. Scuttling, rustling – from every direction. Coming for her.

There is no time to think of what has happened, what has gone wrong. Cuindis draws her knife.

She tilts her head in every direction, as quickly as she dares. The patrol she broke away from is too far away to hear, but she will find them once she gets free of this. Her only chance is to flee in the direction of the fewest pursuers. Where are the sounds the faintest?

Off to her left – all her bearings are gone, swallowed up in the deceitful pathway she followed into this trap – but in this moment that does not matter. She cannot hesitate.

Her knife in her hand, an arrow at the ready in the other for the moment she can draw her bow, crouched low to the ground, Cuindis runs.

She has never thought she would do this – but in the moment, thought flees and motion takes over, and she hacks at the vines and branches in her way, cutting herself a path where there is no space. She cannot trust the trees to allow her through, and she cannot spare a thought for sympathy now – not in the face of saving her own life. Fatigue forgotten, twigs catching in her braids, knife at the ready to slash branches aside, she runs.

The spiders advance through the trees above her; she is making too much noise to hide from them. Her only chance is to fight – she draws her bow. It is dark, and the branches are thick, but in this, at least, she trusts her senses. The spiders are massive blots of wrongness, tune-free clashes of sound against the song of the forest, and she does not even look. She shoots in the direction she feels; she hears arrows bounce off carapaces, and then the squelch as the few of them sink home: in eyes, in maws, in soft underbellies.

She hears three thuds as they fall from the trees and then she is running again.

She chose the right route; at least in that way her senses have not failed her. One more encounter, and then she is free; the forest falls silent and she hears no more spiders – no more immediate danger.

But . . . she has no idea where she is.

* * *

When she finally stumbles back to her patrol, she is dazed with exhaustion and disorientation, shivering from long hours of being lost in the forest – lost in a way she has never been, unable to trust her senses, unable to trust even the path-song that sounded familiar and right. The forest has betrayed them; the home they have always counted on can no longer be trusted, and she feels as though her feet will never find solid ground again because of it.

_Mirkwood,_ the other kingdoms have come to call them.

Perhaps it is this that has finally made her believe it.

* * *

In her dreams, Cuindis is running.

Running and running, retracing an endless path, the same one every time – a labyrinth between thickets of unfriendly bushes, trees that loom, staring down at her with angry eyes, undergrowth that trips her up, tangling in her legs, wrapping up and up and up until –

"Adar! Naneth!"

Cuindis jerks from the heavy, strangling mortal sleep and sits straight up in bed, the world swaying around her as she emerges from one nightmare into the next. Beside her, Thranduil is already halfway up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, sweeping his unbraided cornsilk hair away from his face. "What is it?" No trace of tiredness layers his voice; already he is reaching for trousers and pulling them on.

Laerwen pays no heed to her parents' state of undress; she herself wears a leather brigandine over a light nightdress, legs still bare above her boots. "Word just came – our new borders have been compromised as well. Two families were taken."

Cuindis reaches for her own discarded clothing; she keeps her movements slow to disguise her unsteadiness, but the others will not notice. "Who brought the word?" says Thranduil tightly.

"Ruanna. Neighbors reported to her that they had heard screaming; they would have gone to aid, but they had children" –

Cuindis and Thranduil nod as one. It is another thing few speak of, but everyone understands: their birthrate is falling. Everyone is too frightened to bring children into the world, or perhaps others have experienced sicknesses of the spirit like to Cuindis’s own. Children have always been precious in the Greenwood, but now they are guarded more fiercely than ever before, as the last hundreds of years have proven that this enemy will not be dispelled quickly – that even the greatest of their might can hope only to hold it at bay.

"Send out the archers, then," Thranduil says, his voice muffled in his tunic as he yanks it over his head. "They are quickest and quietest" –

"Done already. Ruanna told me that she had sent out a unit before coming to alert me, but I would have permission to take my own patrol out to sweep the area."

"Granted," Thranduil says. "I will come with you, for I would see for myself what territory remains to us – if we ought to try taking back the borders, or redraw them further back. Cuindis, if you would – Laerwen, are the witnesses being brought to us?"

"They are in the palace, but they will speak to no one. I think they are ashamed for not coming to their neighbors' aid.”

"Then they will speak to you." Thranduil turns to Cuindis, his eyes softening just a fraction, for just a flash of an instant. "Go to them and see what you may do to ease their minds before we return.”

His tunic is on backwards, his hair bound hastily in a leather tie, but he has armored himself in his leathers and the poise of a commander for whom giving orders comes as easily as breathing. Cuindis allows herself to be swept out of their chambers and down the hall, fighting the pain in her chest – pain engendered by a new thought now. That which she is being sent to do is what, to her, true royalty has always meant – easing the spirits of her people, even when her own withers and quails; giving hope and solace even when all seems dark and hopeless. But what her husband and daughter do now is the sort of service that has been forced upon them: protection, defense; hardening themselves and pushing aside their own soft spirits for the aid of others. She has seen it again and again these last years, but never so starkly as now – never has she seen their faces so similar, their grey eyes the hard sheen of a blade.

She has known it was coming for more than a thousand years, has known since her daughter was sent out to fight in a war not their own - but she cannot help wishing she had not had to watch her child turn into a soldier.

* * *

When the others return, Cuindis is surrounded by sleeping elves.

The children, still younger than twenty years, needed to be soothed first, their parents distraught from both their own fear and guilt and their children’s distress. Cuindis sang softly and reassured them with quiet words as they rocked their children to sleep; then she coaxed the details of the situation out of them, until they were so drained from fear and emotion that they fell asleep as well.

Thranduil sweeps into the room, his eyes softening as they land on her face. He gives her half a smile, then jerks his head to the side to indicate that she should follow him out.

“We are moving into the mountains,” he says.

She blinks at him. “We are already here.”

“No, I mean” – He sighs, and scrubs a hand over weary eyes. “We are moving everyone into the mountains. The palace will move further back in, and we will fit the majority of the kingdom into the halls nearest the outside. Some will still have to reconstruct their _telain_ just outside, but those should be only the most able, ever-wary soldiers. The mountains are cavernous enough – and we are few enough – that we should be able to fit without too much stone upon our heads, but even if we cannot – it is our only option.”

A thousand questions rise in Cuindis’s mind – does he really think the Silvan elves will stand to live beneath stone; can Thranduil himself bear to create a home that imitates the dwarves who stole his first home from him; how; when; why – but she cannot bring herself to ask any of them. And she looks at the elves sleeping – truly sleeping – on the hard stone floor of the palace, built at the mouth of the mountains, as though they have not felt this safe in so long –

Perhaps they will not question it, after all.

* * *

“More wine!” calls Thranduil, his face flushed, his eyes snapping.

He is merrier than Cuindis has seen him in hundreds of years; on the seat to his left, Laerwen laughs, flushed herself from drink and the way Siril has twined herself around her, sitting half in her lap, wisps of hair coming free from her pin. Even Cuindis feels her ever-present headache lessening, the lightness of the mood and the cheer of the evening offering the only real treatment to the heaviness in her spirit that has become her new life.

She should not have doubted Thranduil – so often these days she forgets how joyful her husband can be when he wishes, how infectious his glee when he is determined. And she has never forgotten the strength of his will.

“We will welcome ourselves home,” he said, when he announced his intentions to plan this. “And we will celebrate ourselves, even if there is nothing else to be glad of.”

Outside the wide windows, the air is dark, cool with midwinter. Outside, their territory is smaller than ever before, curled around with mist and misery and the nightmare screams of wraiths in the distance. Outside, the borders that they have tightened and tightened again creak under the weight of thousands of eight-legged beasts of evil – but inside the halls are lit with merrily-dancing torches and hung with brightly-colored drapes, the musicians play with determined verve, and a group of young elves has taken a one-night respite from being soldiers to dance. Inside the wine flows, and Thranduil has given three speeches already and Cuindis knows more will come, and for the first time in a long time, there is laughter.

There is _life_.

She holds on to that feeling, and that night when she and Thranduil retire to their new chambers, both of them still flushed and laughing, she can hardly wait until the door is closed behind them before rolling him into bed, aflame with the sudden joy of this new hope.

Perhaps they can recover some life in this darkness after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank katajainen for the idea of parts of the forest itself becoming twisted to evil. Throughout all of this I've wanted to make it clear that for all the darkness in Mirkwood, the elves here deeply love and are attached to their home... but after so long under such powerful corruption, the forest itself couldn't possibly escape completely unscathed.


	30. Part III, Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I've been updating on a semi-regular schedule, but I reserve the right to randomly post another chapter on an off-day because I feel like it.
> 
> Also... hey remember the person who's the reason all these characters exist in the first place? (on a story level, I mean)

A month into their new living arrangements, Cuindis sits at table with her family, picking at her food. Their dining room is not so warm when they are not feasting; when it is just the four of them, the space feels too stone-grey and cold. Perhaps it would be aided by cheer, but Cuindis’s commander-husband and soldier-daughter seem incapable of that these days.

“Did Maeglad speak to you yet of his plan, Laerwen?” asks Thranduil.

“To instate mandatory training for all the children?”

It is necessary, Cuindis knows – knew even yesterday, when Thranduil first told her of it – but it still makes her stomach turn. She has already had to watch her own child harden into the perfect warrior; already has to fear for her every day and every night – she swallows hard at the thought of all the other parents who are experiencing the same pain.

“Good, then he did speak to you. I have already approved the plan, but it will mean some changes in the patrol arrangements as we choose instructors for the young ones. Sword, knife, and bow, I should think – so we must choose those warriors who are skilled enough to teach well, but not so essential to their units that they would be too sorely missed.”

“And patient,” adds Laerwen, the ghost of a wry smile flickering across her face. “They must be patient.”

“Exactly.” The tiniest quirk of Thranduil’s mouth betrays his own amusement, but it is wrong – neither the perfect impassivity of the king nor the full amusement of the father. He has taken on one duty at a time meant for the other, and Cuindis wishes she need not see it. “For that reason I asked Maeglad to speak to you. The leaders of each unit may make those decisions themselves, but one of us must approve each choice, and you know the strengths and weaknesses of many of our warriors . . .”

His voice fades into a high-pitched whine in Cuindis's ears. It matters not whether she can hear him, she thinks; all this is what their meals have become. A time that was once filled with the joy of being surrounded by family has turned into a rudimentary war room, planning their next step against the darkness that holds them under siege. Whatever pleasure was once in these meals has faded into mere relief that her family is still there and together; she dares hope for no more.

That it has come to this – that not only has her beloved forest has been so tainted and corrupted by this shadow, but the evil has even crept into the few domestic joys she is still allowed – ! Sweat creeps over her forehead, chilled as late-winter rain. Her breath comes short and cold into her chest and uneasy stomach, and the venison on her plate looks like nothing more than the dead flesh it is.

"And so our warrior spouses leave behind courtesy yet again to sketch out battles on the terrain of the dinner table," murmurs Siril, half-smiling at Cuindis. Trying to turn this into a jest, trying to lighten her spirits even as darkness creeps through her beloved forest, withering and sickening her home. Cuindis loves her for it, even as another wave of sweat breaks out over her whole body this time, prickling at her hairline, even as she despises the need for the attempts to lighten her spirits. That it should have come to this! It makes her feel – she feels –

The ringing starts up in her ears again; her throat contracts. Her mouth floods with saliva, bitter and burning – 

"Excuse me," she rasps, and lurches to her feet.

She makes it just outside the dining chamber before falling to her knees and heaving the contents of her stomach onto the stone floor.

* * *

Laerwen paces back and forth before the closed infirmary door, her steps quick and tight with the agitation humming through her whole body. Beside her, Siril sits patiently on the bench they have been given, clearly waiting for the moment when Laerwen will be ready to hear her attempts to calm her.

It may be some time.

“How long has she been hiding this from us?” frets Laerwen. “This is not new – this cannot be new!” She has paid so little mind – she has paid _no_ mind, and it is inexcusable – but her mother has not been herself since before their forest was invaded, since before their lives changed. Laerwen thought it was merely her grief at what had happened to their home – and maybe it was, maybe it is, but she should have paid more attention to its effects, to how it might be wounding her mother’s spirit. “How can we not have noticed?”

“Your mother is very skilled at hiding things,” Siril says softly from the bench. “You know this. Surely she did not want to worry you.”

“Well, I worry!” snaps Laerwen. “How can I not? How can she not have told us that something ailed her – how can she not have” – She loses her words; her hands clench into fists at her sides.

Siril rises from the bench and encloses Laerwen’s hands in her own. Her hands are larger than Laerwen’s, callused now from the weapons she has had to take up more than once. Laerwen _hates_ it, fiercely now – she _hates_ the shadow that has swept over her forest, hates that Siril has had to spill blood, even if it is blood of the creatures of evil; she hates the memory that torments her every day, the images that menaced her mind so long ago, of her forest withering and dying under the power so many of her people gave their lives to defeat –

Her anger leaves her in a rush; her head falls forward, and she sighs hard.

Siril lets go of one of her hands to catch her chin and tip it back up. “I will not promise you all will be well,” she says gently. “But we will do the best we can.” She kisses Laerwen lightly on the mouth. “We always do.”

Before Laerwen can reply, the door opens and her father pokes his head out, looking more dazed than she has ever seen him. “Come in,” he says, and sweeps a hand over his face, his hair already tousled as though he has done it many times already. “We have . . . ah, we have some news for you, it seems.”

Laerwen frowns at Siril, who raises her eyebrows back, and they follow her father into the infirmary.

Her mother sits in a bed, propped up against pillows, her curls sticking to her sweat-glazed face, her skin ashen. She looks even worse than she did when she dashed out of the dining room, and Siril’s hand tightens on Laerwen’s in response to her own increased grip.

“News?” says Laerwen. It is all she can manage.

“Yes,” says her mother. “This may come as a surprise – indeed, it is a surprise even to me, which I thought unheard of – but” – She takes a deep breath, and to Laerwen’s surprise, her face softens into a smile. “It seems I am with child.”

* * *

The moment is tense, Siril knows – and indeed, she herself is not immune to worry – but she cannot help but smile at the sight of Laerwen pacing back and forth, once again, before the infirmary doors.

Cuindis’s pregnancy has not been easy for any of them – it has mimicked, as best all the healers can guess, a mortal pregnancy more than anything else, in symptom and in surprise. It is rare for an elf to die bearing a child, as mortals do, but it is still dangerous enough, and even more so now. But still, Laerwen looks as concerned as the tales Siril has heard of fathers of men.

“Come,” Siril says, finally, rising and taking Laerwen’s hands. “We will hear when it is over. Come sit with me while we wait.”

Despite herself, she cannot feel the same fear that so plagues Laerwen. Perhaps it is because she does not have the same shields Laerwen has – she has felt nothing but fear, it seems, for over a thousand years, as Laerwen retreats into the soldier persona that Siril hoped she would never have to inhabit again. Although Cuindis’s frailty is worthy of concern, for the first time in centuries their family has been concerned with something of life, not death – and Siril wonders if perhaps Cuindis herself thought the same thing when this child was conceived.

She toys with Laerwen’s hands in hers and loses herself in thought for the moment. She does not realize she has drifted from thought to dream until Laerwen’s start beside her pulls her back to full consciousness, and her eyes focus just in time to see the door to the infirmary swing open.

“Your Highnesses,” says the tired-looking healer who has come out. “Come meet your younger brother.”

* * *

Brother.

For a heartbeat, Laerwen can only stare – stare at the tiny bundle nestled against her mother’s breast. Brother. The younger sibling she never expected, the new member of her family that she has not had a chance – in all the upheaval of the last months – to consider whether she ever wanted.

He is tiny with Silvan coloring, their mother’s brown skin and a tuft of black hair, though it is too soon to see what the texture will be. His eyes are tightly shut, and he nestles against Cuindis’s breast with a contented snuffling sound.

Brother.

“Well?” says Cuindis, and Laerwen looks up, all thoughts of her brother forgotten in her mother’s face.

“Nana,” she breathes, trying to smother the dismay on her face.

Her mother looks terrible. Her eyes half-closed, her cheeks glazed with sweat and her hair in disarray; her face is practically hollow, as though she has given up nearly all her spirit to bring this child into the world. And perhaps she has.

Laerwen finds she cannot bear to look down at him again.

Cuindis half-smiles, her voice a wisp. “He is beautiful,” she says. “Perfect. Just what I wanted.”

“Yes,” says Laerwen’s father, but his eyes are red-rimmed and exhausted, his hair and clothing askew. One hand rests on Cuindis’s where it cradles the child, but his eyes remain only on her face, not straying to Laerwen, not even for a moment. “What will you name him, _meleth_?”

“That I know already,” Cuindis murmurs happily. “Legolas. For our forest as it was, and as it will be again.”

“Legolas,” Thranduil repeats. “A good name. It will be as you say.”

Laerwen’s mother smiles and closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Cuindis is failing.

Siril has no medical knowledge, and Laerwen nothing beyond what she has picked up on battlefields and scouting missions – but it is plain to be seen regardless. She has yet to rise unaided from her hospital bed, and even when she is supported to walk outside, she only blanches and staggers, rather than reviving in the fresh air as she would have done before the shadow. And she will not let Legolas leave her arms for longer than a few moments.

Everyone else pays little attention to the baby, beyond checking to see that he is healthy. He is a quiet child, watchful, and it is easy to miss him in favor of his mother, who seems not long for the world.

The healers try all they can, and nothing helps. Laerwen and Siril sit beside her bedside and sing to her, and she only smiles wanly and closes her eyes. Thranduil sleeps no longer in his chambers but at her side in the infirmary, and it has no noticeable effect.

Finally, Thranduil says, “There is nothing else for it.” He huffs a fast breath out his nose, squares his shoulders, and tips his chin up. “I must send for another healer – and much as we all may loathe it, there is only one who will do.”


	31. Part III, Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was _very_ fun to write and also _very_ hard to finagle. All the same, I'm very pleased that there was space for it in the story, because it includes something I'd known about Laerwen for at least a year before I finally figured out how it fit into her characterization. Also, a few canon cameos! And some sad stuff.
> 
> A couple notes. First of all, the lore contains a great deal of inconsistency on stories of Lothlorien and its ruling and how and when it changed hands. Some of it makes sense, some of it doesn’t, and some of it doesn’t fit with everything else I’ve written here—so I’ve decided to just do what I want, since it's less important than my central characters.
> 
> Secondly: On the one hand, Laerwen is an overburdened princess struggling with all manner of complicated emotions… and on the other hand she is also gay. That is all.

Elrond of Rivendell arrives in a grand sweeping train of majesty, with more guards riding around him than accompany a scouting party to the far south. The sight makes Laerwen raise her eyebrows – from what she remembers of Elrond, he never struck her as a coward. Perhaps living in his safe haven for a thousand years has softened him? Or perhaps he wishes to remind them of his own power – that he can keep his people safe enough to spare such a large entourage to their shrunken, threatened realm – to their _Mirkwood_ –

And then Laerwen’s eyes fall on the rider behind him, and all comes clear.

“King Thranduil, Princess Laerwen,” says Elrond unnecessarily. “I present to you my daughter Arwen, who chose to accompany me on her way to stay with her grandparents in Lothlórien.”

As though the maid could be anyone else. She may be the most beautiful elf Laerwen has ever seen: her hair, black as gleaming ebony or the shapes of branches against the midnight sky, is braided into a thick coil at the back of her head, but Laerwen can see that it is lustrous and thick, with the glossy sheen that their kind so prizes. Her eyes are silver-grey like soft dawn, her skin fair and glowing with the light of the moon – she is all the beauty of night, but night as Laerwen has not seen it in so long: soft, gentle, healing, _safe_.

Laerwen hates her instantly.

“Welcome, Lady Arwen, to our home,” says Thranduil, no trace of antipathy in his voice. They can ill afford it, after all, and his skill in masking his feelings has only grown – or perhaps he can pay no mind to the daughter when all his will is bent on begging the aid of the father. “And thank you, my lord Elrond, for coming at my request. If you would accompany me to our sickroom, I will have my aides see to your companions and their mounts. Laerwen?” He jerks his head in Arwen’s direction, and she would scowl at him had he not trained her in better manners.

“Of course.” She steps forward as the lady slides from her horse and gives it over into the care of the stablehands. “Lady Arwen, if you would come with me.”

Without being asked, two of Arwen’s guards break off from the rest and follow them. Assigned to her personal protection, then, no doubt. For all that Laerwen has seen it done by all their other visitors – for all that she knows Cuindis herself is accompanied by personal guards on her diplomatic missions – it feels like a slight now: as though the lady’s guards are a commentary on the state of her kingdom, of her hospitality.

And how can it not be? They may think they are subtle, but she can see them exchanging looks, cutting glances around them as they are led deeper into the halls. She sees the way they draw close to their charge, as though their presence can protect her from being poisoned by the taint of the kingdom they visit.

“Follow me,” Laerwen says, and leads them down a long corridor towards the guests’ chambers. A room for Lord Elrond has been made up already, and a few rooms for the retinue they assumed he would bring, but nothing for Arwen – they did not know to anticipate her coming. Laerwen makes a swift decision: she will take the adjoining chambers, and the guards will merely have to share in closer quarters. “I will take you to the rooms we have laid ready.”

Before she turns away from them, she catches the flicker of a smile on one guard’s face, hastily wiped away in favor of an impassive stare.

Not hastily enough. Laerwen knows what he thinks; her mother has brought back tales of enough diplomatic visits, the murmurs that she was not meant to overhear about the strangeness of her accent, the ongoing disdain for the culture of the Silvan elves. For all that she looks Sindarin, Laerwen speaks with the Silvan accent of her mother, her wife, and the majority of her subjects.

In a way it is almost gratifying to have a reason for indignation against their visitors.

Arwen is otherwise irreproachable: she wears a smile of perfect graciousness, though she has yet to speak. Laerwen imagines that her voice must sound like the feel of the moonlight itself – as perfect as the rest of her. She looks a queen in the way neither Cuindis or Laerwen has ever aspired to: her hair bound up in shining coils; a single moonstone hanging around her neck; one hand delicately lifting the hem of her robe so it will not touch the ground. She walks as though she expects the ground to retreat from her in awe, the wind itself to bear her aloft so she need not touch it – and, Laerwen thinks sourly, the wind would surely be glad to do the job.

She is resplendent, and in the glow of her perfect beauty and fine clothing, Laerwen cannot help casting a critical eye over her own kingdom. Their stone halls feel dank and drab; as they have received fewer visitors, they have made less of an effort to preserve the appearance of their own wealth. Their palace is not as well-kept as before; many of the Sindarin stewards have fled west, and those who are able have taken on military duties in addition to or instead of their prior occupations. And such finery as Arwen wears is out of place here; clothing beyond simple tunics and breeches is reserved only for the rarest of celebrations.

It would not be out of place in Lothlórien, her stated destination, or in Rivendell – and thence, surely, stems Laerwen’s resentment. Perhaps she has merely lived too long in a forest tainted by the Dark Lord, but it is the freshness and sense of safety that feels so unnatural to her now. She cannot help wondering – they all wonder – if it is a coincidence that Sauron chose their realm to target, instead of the valley of Imladris or golden Lórien, so nearby. Is it a coincidence, or do those realms – ruled by Noldor as they are, people tied more closely to the powers good and evil alike that led to his ascent – have something the Greenwood does not?

And now Arwen is here, the darling of these two powerful elven realms, this maid who must have been protected her whole life by a power that was never so much as offered to Laerwen’s own. She is here, surrounded by guards who glance around suspiciously as though to protect her from her hosts, who muffle laughter at Laerwen’s speech and look distastefully at her realm, as though they could have done a better job of protecting it – and Laerwen’s teeth clench so hard that she tastes metal in the back of her throat.

“Forgive me my imposition,” says Arwen at last, once Laerwen has led them to their chambers – and yes, her voice is as perfect as Laerwen could have imagined, low and smooth and rich. “But might I ask if you have chambers for bathing or refreshment? It has been a long journey, and I would be glad to rid myself of the dust of the road.”

_The dust of the road._ It cannot have been as arduous a journey as she claims, not in such fine clothing, not when she looks still so impeccable. But Laerwen bites her tongue. It is not her place to comment, even if she cannot help comparing Arwen’s pristine appearance to warriors returning from long patrols, bedraggled and exhausted and filthy.

“There is a tub in your quarters,” she says, “and running water. It is channeled from streams, so it runs only cold, but you also have a fireplace if you prefer to heat it.”

“Thank you,” says Arwen, with a dip of her head. “That will serve nicely.”

“You may call for food if you wish it,” Laerwen says. “There will be no formal meal tonight” – indeed, there has not been since Cuindis first took ill – “and I know not when your father will return. But your needs will be seen to.”

“Your hospitality is most welcome,” says Arwen. “May I ask what I may expect from my visit here?”

“That I cannot answer myself.” Laerwen knows only that she is to see to Arwen’s entertainment for the duration of her visit. Internally she fumes at the task – she has been counted one of the highest-ranking military generals for five hundred years, has taken part in economic and diplomatic decisions for even longer. She is no longer a child to be patronized with such tasks as catering to visitors! And more – that she is to be kept from the infirmary where her mother is being seen to; that she is to interrupt her own meetings and tasks for a visitor! But whatever her personal feelings, Lord Elrond of Rivendell is not just any visitor, and especially in light of the nature of his current task, his daughter’s pleasure and safety are paramount. “But you may call upon me should you find yourself in need of anything.”

“I am grateful for the offer.” The lady Arwen hesitates for a moment. “And I would say – I am sorry to hear of your mother’s condition. I wish the best for her recovery.”

Laerwen’s teeth grind so hard she wonders if she will wear them smooth. “I thank you for your concern,” she grits out. After all this – after all the imposition of her visit, after her guards’ judgment and her own expectations – she offers her sympathy? “I will see you tomorrow, Lady Arwen.”

Arwen seems to glean the rebuff, at least. Her lips tighten for just a moment, and her voice is similarly cold when she responds. “Until then, Your Highness.”

* * *

Laerwen’s back is rigid as an iron rod; she perches rather than sits on the edge of the bed, and Siril does not need to see her face to know how her eyes burn.

She lets out a long, heavy sigh. “_Meleth_,” she says, very gently, “have you considered that you are being unreasonable?”

Laerwen’s shoulders round forward for just an instant, and she huffs a mirthless laugh. “Yes.” She turns to Siril at last, her mouth half-curved up. “I have considered it, and then I discarded the thought, although I know you are certainly right.”

“Understood.” Siril crawls toward her over the bed and dares to lay a hand on Laerwen’s shoulder. If Laerwen is calm enough to jest, her company is clearly welcome. “Then let us forget about her for a few moments, shall we?”

Laerwen lets herself be drawn down to the bed, but grumbles as soon as she is lying down. “Did you see how many warriors he brought along to protect her? As though it would be an international catastrophe if a stray twig were to catch in her hair.”

Siril raises an eyebrow, and Laerwen sighs. “I know,” she says, without Siril needing to speak. She reaches up and hooks an arm around Siril’s neck. “I do not tell you often enough how grateful I am to have you. I think I should forget who I am entirely if you were not here to remind me.”

It is not the first time she has said this, but it warms Siril all the same every time. She is learning how to live in a forest under siege, learning – as they all are – to make the most of the moments of joy amidst the fear, but it will never come easily to her. It is easier to stay in Laerwen’s shadow, to let her wife make the military decisions during the day and to discuss doubts and concerns in the evening – and sometimes, to help her forget about all of it entirely.

In that vein, she smiles and removes Laerwen’s hand from her neck, pressing it and her other wrist flat to the bed above Laerwen’s head. “Really,” she says, letting her voice slip down an octave and watching the tiniest of shivers pass through Laerwen’s body. “That is unfortunate, for tonight I had it more in mind to make you forget your own name.”

She moves one leg over to straddle Laerwen’s hips, and smiles when she feels them arch beneath her weight. Laerwen’s eyes are all pupil now, breath puffing between her parted lips. “Ah,” she says breathily. “Ah, that sounds like a much better idea.”

* * *

All the same, neither of them rests well that night. It has become usual, since Cuindis took ill, for their dreams to be troubled, if they can rest enough to find them. Indeed, when Siril emerges from restless reverie, she can tell that Laerwen has not slept at all.

They go to meet Arwen together; all normal operations but the military have been suspended in these breathless days of waiting, and the patrols run as scheduled. Their main duty now is to attend to their visitor, and Siril hopes her presence at least will help Laerwen resent it a bit less.

But it is no use. When they first meet Arwen, the air between them turns to ice, and they exchange greetings with frost in their voices that makes Siril cringe.

She and Laerwen squire the visitors around the palace, making inane chatter of the sort that Siril despises and showing them what the palace has to offer. Siril can feel, now, what Laerwen meant last night – there is a constant feeling of _less-than_, of _not-enough_, in all that they indicate – all the halls that were once used for entertainment that are now quarters for citizens who cannot live too far from the palace; all the cramped indoor dance floors that by rights ought to be outside beneath the trees and stars. All the parts of their lives that have been narrowed, suppressed, by the encroaching shadow.

Near midday, the lady Arwen suggests that they take a walk – a request with the ring of expectation. Perhaps she has seen enough of the stone walls of the halls where they live, or she has grown tired of the stilted conversation as they escort her about.

For whatever reason, Siril is glad of it; the tension in Laerwen’s body is practically a physical presence of its own, as good as vibrating. She has managed thus far to keep up her part of the obligatory pleasant conversation, but hopefully some time in the forest will give her a place to spend that energy before she says something she will regret.

The feeling of fresh air is a relief for Siril as well; she too finds herself jittering around their visitors, acutely aware of her own Silvan features and unable to relax. But for all the gloom of the forest, her spirit lightens the moment they have stepped out from beneath the stone. She tips her head back, seeking the few watery rays of sunlight that filter through the canopy above, and takes a deep breath of free air.

Laerwen proposes a tour of the grounds surrounding the halls – the courts where the warriors practice their skills; the runs where the archers put on stunning displays from time to time. But Arwen’s face creases in a faint frown.

"I thank you for the invitation," she says, with the politeness of obligation, "and I should certainly be pleased to see whatever you have in mind to show. But I fear I should be a less satisfactory audience than one who knows the crafts of war; I am not my brothers’ equal in such areas. You might find me a more able observer to exhibits of performance or art, should such things be displayed here.”

Laerwen stiffens at the words, and Siril winces. _Should such things be displayed here_ – as if Arwen expects already to be disappointed – but she is more right than she knows. Art has given way to craft these days, practiced less for pleasure than for use: textile workers pick up weapons more frequently than needles now; song is of necessity muted outside the protecting yet forbidding stone walls. Those who once worked leather for beauty now find themselves with only enough material for armor; smiths are constantly at work making weapons rather than adornments; and as for writers – the most common poetry penned these days is of lament.

It weighs upon Siril's heart to know that there is so little room left for the creation of beauty in their kingdom – and to know that she, by virtue of her domestic duties and her warrior wife, is yet protected from even the worst of it – but she knows that it is worse for her wife. That Laerwen, who has for so long borne responsibility for battle on her shoulders, sees it as a source of shame.

Siril is often wont to remain quiet in company, letting Laerwen speak for the two of them. But now, heedless of her self-consciousness or even of her accent, she speaks up.

"We have found ourselves with less time for handcrafts in these days," she says, "but we have always found the work of our hands a poor substitute for the beauty that lies all around us.” She gestures out at the forest, encompassing everything and nothing in a broad sweep of her arm – the slow murmurs of the older trees against the brighter song of the new saplings that have not yet learned fear; the rustlings as squirrels and sparrows dart in and out of foliage; the sudden bright flares of green when the sunlight catches just so on a flat leaf. Threatened it might be, but it is home – and dearer than ever before in the face of the menace. “Would you care to wander with us and meet our woods?”

Arwen’s poise is impeccable, but Siril has had long years of practice gleaning subtle emotions from those who do not show their expressions on their faces. “Of course,” she says, only the hint of reluctance in her voice, only the slightest pause. “I would be pleased to see more of your realm.”

Two of her guards share unhappy glances, and Laerwen’s lips tighten – for of course, she too noticed Arwen’s lapse. “Only if you are willing,” she says. “We would not infringe upon your comfort.”

She says the words lightly, but it seems Elrond’s daughter has a stubborn streak to match Laerwen’s own; her chin jerks up just slightly. “Of course we are willing,” she says, giving her guards a warning look. “Indeed, we are eager.”

And so they walk. Laerwen and Siril lead the way, communicating silently about the path they will choose – something brisk, perhaps, but not too taxing. For all they may not get on with their visitors, neither of them has any desire to terrorize Elrond’s daughter, particularly not while her father tends to Cuindis. Every now and then Laerwen’s hand will tighten around Siril’s, and Siril knows she is remembering that – is fighting the urge to abandon the whole group to the forest and run back to the palace on her own.

She squeezes Laerwen’s hand back and says nothing.

They walk in silence for a time – or, Laerwen and Siril walk in silence. Behind them they hear the shuffling feet of Arwen and her guards, unfamiliar with navigating the tangled undergrowth of the forest; the soft grunts beneath their breath when they trudge up an incline. Then one of the guards mumbles something in an unfamiliar tongue – Qenya, perhaps? Or a dialect specific to Rivendell? – and the lady murmurs something in response with the tone of a laughing reprimand.

Laerwen clears her throat. "So," she says. "You are to visit Lothlórien in a few days?"

"Yes," says Arwen. "My mother's mother rules there with her husband, who is I think a kinsman of your father?"

"Distantly," says Laerwen. Siril recalls meeting the lord Celeborn once, a few hundred years ago when he and his wife Galadriel came to meet them as the new rulers of Lothlorien. But the Greenwood has had little contact with that wood since the departure of Amroth; they are allies now more than friends. Their Silvan population is still substantial, Cuindis has reported from diplomatic visits, but they have taken on the traditions of their new rulers in a way that the elves here would never have countenanced.

Indeed, those reports seem borne out by Arwen's next words. "I do see the distance of that relationship, for the ways I have come to know in Lothlórien are very different from what I have observed here." Siril looks over at Laerwen, just the flash of a glance, to see her wife sucking her lips into her mouth, clearly fighting the desire to make a comment. Arwen, seeming to sense that she has said something amiss, says hastily, "Of course, I do not mean to pry into the nature of your traditions" –

At first, Siril thinks the humming of tension in the back of her mind is the indication of a brewing fight; she wonders if she ought to intervene, to soothe Laerwen's agitation before she says something she will regret. But Arwen's apologetic voice fades into the background of her mind, her senses sharpening at the discord in the song that surrounds them, the false note – and she realizes it is something much more serious.

"Hush," she says, her own voice abrupt in the buzz of conversation.

Behind her, Arwen sucks in a startled breath and goes quiet, but Laerwen looks over in a sharp, jerky motion, and Siril can practically see her wife's features transforming, her head cocking to the side, her own senses on high alert.

"I beg your pardon?" says one of the guards, drawing himself up, but Laerwen silences him with a sharp, "Tzzt!"

Silence falls – _silence._ Even the forest-song fades into a low, dampened hum, and there are no overt sounds: no rustlings of birds or squirrels in the trees. They have either hidden or fled – and against that quiet comes the low, menacing hum of wrongness again.

There is no chill, and still too much daylight. Not a wraith, then, and they cannot hear the sounds of their foe, so it cannot be a marauding party of orcs, either. That leaves only one option.

"Siril," says Laerwen quietly. "Get them away from here."

Siril hesitates. "Will you need help?"

"Nimloth's patrol passes not far from here, this time of day." Laerwen's neck is taut, her profile sharp against the trees in the background. "They will hear me when I call. Go."

Siril nods and turns to the others. Command has never sat easily on her shoulders, but there are always exceptions – and she knows the forest better than they could ever hope to. "Come with me."

One of the guards hesitates. "Are we attacked?" he demands, his hand straying to his sword. "We would not turn and run while" –

"_Go_," repeats Laerwen, a razor edge of impatience in her voice. "You do not know how to fight in this forest; I will take no chances with your safety. Follow Siril."

She leaves no room for argument. Her legs bunch beneath her; she springs straight up into the air to catch a low-hanging branch, hoists herself easily into a tree, and disappears.

Siril can hear the rustlings of her path into the distance, but only for a moment before it disappears entirely. She turns her own senses to determining the safest path away. They are still close enough to the palace that the spiders will likely not accost them if they retrace their steps; they met no menace on their way here. And this close to their halls, the forest is yet to be trusted; there is no ring of falseness, no trick of the enemy. She beckons Arwen and her guards to follow.

To her great relief, they do not argue, but rather try to copy her for stealth and swiftness. They have gone only a furlong or so when Siril hears, off in the distance, a shrill, piercing whistle.

Laerwen. The whistle serves two purposes: it will draw the foes to her and away from Siril and her charges, and will alert any others on nearby patrols that she needs aid. Even Siril cannot help glancing in its direction, though she knows its source and is rarely of assistance when called for aid.

Her companions look up as well. “You are sure there is nothing we can do to aid her?” says Arwen.

Siril shakes her head. “She is more than capable alone, but she will have summoned friends to her side by now.” But for all her confidence in her wife’s abilities, she cannot stop the squirming in her belly.

They walk in silence for another few moments before one of the guards speaks up again. “What is this foe, then, that we cannot be trusted to face?”

Siril slows her pace just slightly, listening with one ear for any sign of further danger but beginning to relax as they draw nearer to the halls. “You have heard, have you not, of the spiders that menace our woods?”

They all blanch, almost unnoticeably. Siril wonders if some strange power protected them on their journey here, such that they had no encounters with the fell things; she remembers bitter murmurs of suspicion from Thranduil and Laerwen about the enchanted protection of Rivendell. “They are real, then?” says one of the guards.

“Much though we wish they were not.” Something rustles in the distance; Siril tilts her head to the side to hear better and then relaxes all at once. Not a serious threat then, this time. Good. “Real enough to have claimed many lives.”

Arwen swallows. “And these attacks, are they . . . frequent?”

“Frequent enough.” Laerwen drops from a tree next to Siril, hardly disheveled at all. One of the guards startles at her appearance and springs between her and Arwen, sword drawn – but Laerwen catches his blade on the hilt of her own and twists it out of his grip with an almost lazy motion of her wrist. “But not always a cause for great concern.”

“Nimloth was nearby, then?” Siril asks.

“Yes, and had three archers with her. It was over quickly.” Laerwen sheathes her sword as the guard, scarlet-faced, retrieves his from the ground. “But I find I have lost my taste for an afternoon walk.” She looks around, her face drawing in unhappily. “Shall we return and see if there is news for us?”

* * *

They are summoned to the infirmary as soon as they return.

Cuindis sits upright in her bed, her face ashen, the baby – as always – cradled against her breast. Her other hand is folded between Thranduil’s two; he perches beside her. His eyes are red-rimmed, as though he has been weeping, but his face is stone.

Laerwen’s heart goes cold.

Siril squeezes her hand, but she hardly feels the warmth of her wife’s skin. “What is it?” she asks, and the words emerge in a croaking whisper. “What have you found?”

Lord Elrond turns and looks at her, and his face is so tired that Laerwen can almost forget her dislike for him. “Ill news only, I am afraid,” he says, and it comes rushing back.

“What ill news?”

It is Arwen who asks the question, and Laerwen has to tighten her grip on Siril’s hand so that she will not turn and hit something. How dare she ask, when this is not her family, not her mother? How dare she presume?

But Elrond answers her. “She is fading,” he says. “There is nothing else this could be. There are many reasons for it, perhaps, but she was already struggling to hold on to her own life. Bringing a child into the world took the last of her strength.”

The news hits Laerwen like a club to the gut; her chest folds around her lungs, and she cannot draw breath. Her knees tremble; beside her, Siril, usually her steady support, gasps as well.

They stumble forward as one and sink onto the edge of the bed. Laerwen reaches out blindly, and Cuindis shifts the baby into the arm holding Thranduil’s hand to reach out and catch Laerwen’s own. “I am sorry,” she murmurs. “I did not want it to be as I feared.” But even her voice is fainter than the rustle of leaves – as though she is already half gone.

“You sensed this?” Laerwen whispers. “Then why did you – why” –

She stops, remembering their visitors. This is none of their affair. Questions and recriminations can be had later; she whirls back to face Elrond. “What can be done about it?” she demands. “Tell me it is not too far gone!”

“Too far to be remedied here,” Elrond says, his face grave. Whatever dislike he may feel for them on his own part is suppressed now, and Laerwen is grateful for that much, at least. “There is only one place she can be healed.”

“Where?” Laerwen says desperately. “Is it Rivendell? You can go wherever you need, Naneth; we will take over your responsibilities in your absence, if only you” –

“Not Rivendell,” says Elrond, cutting her off.

“Then where” –

“Valinor.”

It is Thranduil who speaks, for the first time since Laerwen has entered the room. His face is bloodless, his knuckles white where he holds Cuindis’s hand. “The only place for this kind of healing is across the sea.”

Laerwen’s ears ring; all sound goes tinny and she wonders for the barest instant if she will faint. Beside her, Siril sways, and that motion is enough to snap Laerwen back into awareness as she hurries to wrap an arm around her wife and hold her upright.

Behind her, she can vaguely hear Elrond urging Arwen out of the room, leaving them alone, but she can only stare. “Will you sail, then?” she whispers. “Will you leave us?”

“I must, _henig nîn_,” says Cuindis, her voice cracking into a whisper. “If you would have there be anything left of me to see you again one day. And,” and she looks down fondly, withdrawing her hand from Laerwen’s to stroke the baby’s head, “so Legolas might one day have the chance to know his mother, even if ages should pass before that time comes.”

“Why?” Laerwen asks, looking down at him as well. “Why, if you knew you were so weak? Why did you” –

“Laerwen,” Thranduil says sharply. “He will hear you.”

“Because,” Cuindis says, “he gives me joy.” She strokes his hair, the short black tuft. “Because in the nightmare that our world has become, amidst the war and danger and darkness, he reminds me of light and hope.” She looks up then, straight at Laerwen, her next words for her alone. “Promise me,” she says fiercely, her voice stronger than it has been in months. “Do not let him grow up to be a soldier. Let him learn to love life, rather than death.”

“Naneth,” Laerwen begins, for how can she make such a promise? And how can Cuindis ask this of her, now, in this moment?

But she looks at her mother, looks at the frailty in her limbs and her wild hair and the ferocity with which she cradles her son to her, and she can say nothing but, “I will do my best.”

* * *

She breaks the news in council the next day – she, not Thranduil, for he still refuses to leave Cuindis’s bedside. The queen must sail over sea, she explains. They have not yet worked out how she will travel there, but she –

“You need not.”

It is Dravaor, interrupting her with a sad, sorry look on hir face. Laerwen blinks.

“What do you mean?”

“You need not make arrangements to transport her,” ze says. Hir mouth twists into a sad smile. “It seems now is as good a time as any to tell you that I have been making plans to take the voyage myself.”

“You” –

“Yes.” Ze takes a deep breath and sits up straight. “When the time comes, Laerwen” – she has never been “Highness” to Dravaor – “I will take your mother over the sea.”

* * *

When Dravaor rides off with Laerwen’s mother, Cuindis taking her last look behind her at the forest she will never see again, not one of those left behind sheds a tear.

Laerwen has spent all of hers already, all her grief used up in the preparation for this parting; now she is left only dull and numb. Beside her, Siril squeezes her hand, and Laerwen need not even glance at her to know the sentiment is shared. Thranduil looks ahead, his jaw clenched so hard Laerwen can practically hear his teeth grinding; his eyes are chips of lifeless slate. He makes no sound, but the branch he clutches protests under the grip of his white-knuckled hands.

Even the baby does not cry, merely watches with bright brown eyes. He cannot understand what all is happening, surely, but the way he looks at them, the round set of his mouth, reveals that he knows something serious is happening.

Laerwen stares at him, and he looks back at her with curious eyes. No one has paid him much mind but Cuindis since that first relief of his birth – they have all been too focused on her to mind the life she spent so much of her own bringing into the world. But now she is gone, and he is here – the last bit of her spirit that she was able to leave them.

_Legolas_, she named him. _Greenleaf_. A reminder of what the forest once was – and a promise of what it could be again.

Legolas’s eyes crumple, his mouth flattening and turning down into a pout. Laerwen braces herself for a shriek, but when he cries out it is only one note – clear, upward-lilting, a song and a question at once. “Ahh?”

Laerwen glances at her father, but he is still gazing into the distance where Cuindis has vanished forever. He makes no sign of having heard.

Siril touches Laerwen’s shoulder. “Shall I?” she murmurs.

Laerwen hesitates. Surely children are much more in Siril’s domain than her own; how can she, whose hands are so soiled and soul so embittered, nurture such a young life, such a fragile green leaf, into bloom? But . . .

But Legolas keeps his eyes on her, his curious, innocent young eyes, and Laerwen believes she can see the soul of the whole world in their depths.

“Legolas,” she says, names him, makes him real. Sweeps him into her arms. “My brother. What do you need of me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END OF PART III.


	32. Part IV: Nurturing, Chapter I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out, the "part" divisions are about to get smaller, as the timeskips become less significant and each chapter more reactive. But this one to come is all about Legolas.
> 
> In my usual practice of airing my insecurities before the chapter, I want to give a little background for why I've included some of the things I did: This story is essentially a prequel to a lot of my other fic in this specific 'verse, and a lot of it is based on a very specific characterization of Legolas (specifically, that he is a very anxious person). Because I started writing this knowing how I imagined the character would become, a lot of this feels like explanation and fill-in-the-blank backstory. I've tried very hard to make it make sense to people who haven't read the other stuff, but I can't quite separate myself from my perspective enough to tell if it works.
> 
> Also, children are hard to write, so I've done my best.
> 
> Finally: I wrote this section a long time ago so without this specific intention. But considering current events... hoo boy does the Mirkwood stuff feel timely.

Laerwen knows that it must be her imagination that the forest is brighter.

Nothing has changed since her mother departed – if anything it has grown even worse. The Ringwraiths pay nearly nightly visits to the boundaries of the kingdom, testing the perimeter the elves have drawn farther and farther back over the centuries and casting the net of their terror over all of the forest. Spiders lurk inside and out of the kingdom; no one can travel their paths alone assured of safety, and all but the hardiest and most determined of their warriors yet dare to retain their homes outside of the protective walls of the mountains.

Nothing has changed, except –

“Oh!”

Laerwen’s head snaps up at the sound, anxious eyes stumbling over leaves and branches – coming to rest at last on Legolas where he perches on a tall, gnarled root. Only when she sees that he is smiling, his cry one of delight, does she relax the set of her shoulders.

From beside her, Siril sighs out a laugh.

“You may keep your judgments to yourself,” Laerwen murmurs, but she cannot keep the corners of her mouth from twitching upwards as Legolas swipes at a low-hanging leaf with clumsy childish fingers.

“Did I say a word?”

“I know what you were thinking.” Laerwen leans into Siril despite the gentle indignation of her words, feeling the warm solidness of her wife against her side.

Siril hums contentedly, shifts her arm slightly to drape the end of her braiding project over Laerwen’s lap. Laerwen takes the moment to study it. Few use this craft the way Siril does, braiding and winding strips of fabric together into patterned tapestries – most satisfy themselves with making simple rugs, and prefer more intricate methods of weaving for their blankets and wall-hangings. The patterns are rougher and more abstract than can be made with more precise arts, but – warmer, somehow. More real.

Like Siril herself, Laerwen thinks, and cranes her neck to the side to sneak a kiss.

Her lips have only just grazed Siril’s cheek when she hears a rustle and a thud and she is board-stiff again, half-upright before her eyes have even focused. Legolas has slipped from his tree root and dropped onto his backside in a graceless and ungainly descent, huffing as he hits the ground.

Laerwen has never cared for a child as closely as she has Legolas, but she has been near them often enough to know that this is the moment that an observed child would start wailing. They are too young, too fragile, to have become pain-hardened like their elders – and anyway, Legolas’s perch was nearly as tall as his standing height; that was no insignificant distance – but Legolas does not cry out. He sits in the dirt for a moment, catching his breath – and then he turns to face them, where Laerwen is half-standing, ready to go to him, and gives them a smile that Laerwen would almost call deliberately reassuring, were he older.

As if he _knows_.

She is half-ready to rise and go to him anyway – perhaps he says nothing because he is hurt in truth; how is she to know what he can yet endure – but Siril tugs at her hand and pulls her back down.

“Love,” she murmurs. “Let him be.”

“I only want” –

“I know.” Siril shifts her braiding onto her own lap and drapes an arm over Laerwen’s shoulders, heavy and sure. Comforting and restraining at once. “And he knows it too. He is safe and unharmed. Leave him be.”

Laerwen lets herself be held down, forces herself to look away from her brother – so tiny that even the small clearing where they sit feels vast in comparison. She plucks at Siril’s project to distract herself: it is darker than what she has wrought in the past, less determinedly cheerful – deep browns and greens woven with thin strips of black in random and indiscernible patterns. The picture of uncertainty.

“You have not been able to reestablish contact, then?” she murmurs, though she knows the answer.

Siril sighs, long and deep. “The woods pine in your mother’s absence,” she says. “I do not know if they will not speak to me because they long for her, or because they truly have been twisted beyond our ability to reach them.” She looks down at the fabric in her lap as well, traces the lines of black.

“She was never the same, after.” Laerwen rests a hand over Siril’s, for the comfort of feeling her wife’s fingers beneath her own. They have – mostly, they hope – found the areas of the forest where the voices of the trees are not to be trusted, where the will of the wood has been warped beyond recognition, but they live every day with that uncertainty, with the wondering when other parts of their home will be forced into betraying them. The thought is not one of anger – they could never loathe this wood, no matter how dark it becomes, for they _know_ that it is not the will of their home to turn against them – but one of deep, heavy sadness, and there are times when she understands the sickness that came to weigh on her mother’s spirit.

No, nothing has changed – or if it has, it has only grown worse.

And yet –

A third hand settles atop theirs on Siril’s tapestry – a much smaller hand, with dirty fingers and tiny stubs of fingernails – and Laerwen looks to the side into solemn, dark eyes. Legolas makes no sound, but once she has looked at him, he offers his free hand, clasped around a smooth grey pebble.

“Have you found a treasure?” she asks him, but he says nothing, still holding out the pebble as though waiting. When at last she takes his meaning and opens her hand, he presses the pebble into it.

“Thank you,” she says, staring down at her hand – at the tiny stone that cannot possibly be responsible for the vast bubble of warmth expanding in her chest. Legolas does not respond to her thanks in words, but taps her thigh until she spreads her arms and allows him to climb into her lap.

He is _so small_; she may never stop marveling at it – so small, and yet the most substantial weight she has ever held, pressure against the wound in her heart. Siril shifts closer, and Legolas reaches out a hand to catch a wisp of hair that has fallen over her forehead.

She smiles at him – that slow, precious smile that Laerwen so loves to watch bloom on her face. Legolas releases her hair and touches her cheek instead, and then turns back to Laerwen and pokes hers with the same finger as though asking her to smile as well.

At that thought, Laerwen cannot hold onto her melancholy. Her lips curve unstoppably upward, and only then does Legolas’s face crease into a beam of his own. He laughs, and the sound is as precious as the chatter of a stream.

The kingdom is no brighter than it ever was. If anything, it is darker. But Laerwen strokes her brother’s hair, and for a moment she holds the very sun itself in her lap.

* * *

“Ought he to be speaking by now?” Laerwen frets. “I know I had already begun to talk, by a year of age” –

“Not all children are so precocious as you were, my love,” Siril teases her gently.

Laerwen gives her a dirty look. “You know that is not what I” –

“I know.” Siril strokes an apologetic hand down Laerwen’s side, and Laerwen rolls closer to her, pulling the sheet tighter over their bodies. “But perhaps he is merely not ready yet. He is otherwise healthy, and already he sings as sweetly as anyone could hope.”

Indeed, Legolas is in all other respects a perfectly sound child. Not that Siril knows, herself, how children ought to be – they are a poor couple for this – but Celair has told her Legolas is not unlike she was as a child. He loves to run about, laughs in delight every time a bird flies into view, and loves to bring them small treasures he has found – a tiny, perfect egg; a brightly-colored feather, the shed casing of an insect – singing a cooing wordless song of pleasure when they smile and exclaim. And it is true that he has not yet spoken a word, but he loves to point at things and beam when they tell him their names.

Siril finds him enchanting – almost as enchanting, in fact, as the look of tender awe that softens over Laerwen’s face whenever her brother smiles.

“You are right, I am sure,” Laerwen sighs. The worried line between her brows does not disappear, though, so Siril has no other option but to lean forward and kiss it away – and then to kiss the resulting pout from Laerwen’s lips. And then her mouth finds other targets, and they leave speech aside themselves for the night.

That is not the last time they discuss the topic; indeed, Legolas’s well-being has become a nightly topic of conversation between them. They have never wanted children for themselves – and there are nurses aplenty to attend to Legolas’s bodily needs – but Laerwen has designated herself and Siril the stewards of his soul. (And rightly so, for Thranduil is nothing like he once was; Cuindis took more than herself when she departed, it seems.)

So they sing to Legolas when he is distressed or upset – and at other times; he delights in song, it seems – watch him as he scampers among the trees and soothe his bruises when he falls, tuck him into bed at night. Siril lets him play in her garden during the day when Laerwen is busy – she has assumed without being asked the diplomatic tasks that previously belonged to Cuindis – but she is careful to step back whenever Laerwen is present, to let her do the bulk of the comforting or celebrating. Blood tells, after all.

And indeed it does tell, for Siril has never seen such terrified devotion in Laerwen’s face, such restrained gentleness in her hands, as though she fears she will break him if she handles him too roughly.

“I just – I _love him so much,”_ she confesses to Siril one evening, sounding near to tears.

Thranduil does not speak to them beyond the necessary discussion of duties and plans. He has retreated into the coldness of command, speaking up only in council, only to ask questions and give orders. His greatest concession to his youngest child seems to have been his willingness to take back much of Laerwen’s share of the military duties, so she might have more time to spend with Legolas and Siril – to form some kind of family out of their great loss.

Thranduil does not seem to know how to be part of that family himself, not any longer. But in rare moments of rest he will join them in the gardens and watch his son play for a long time, a silent presence with a faintly longing expression.

Siril can only hope it is better than nothing.

* * *

Cuindis’s tasks divide up neatly between Thranduil, Laerwen, and Siril. The king judges disputes that have gone too far for anyone but the highest authority to resolve. Laerwen adds diplomacy to her own duties, venturing out of the forest at times when treaties or incidents cannot be solved with correspondence only. Siril would accompany her, but they have agreed without ever the need to speak it aloud that one of them must always remain behind, so that Legolas need never be without their support.

Forest-bound, her duties are more limited – but also broader, quieter, subtler.

They do not often speak of them aloud, but they all know.

* * *

“Your Highness.”

It is Grawar, Legolas’s tutor. Laerwen puts aside the reports she has been reading and takes a deep breath, preparing herself for the internal shift from general to sister. “Grawar. Is Legolas well?”

Grawar does not speak immediately, and panic pulses through Laerwen’s blood in a quick cold shock. She pushes the papers aside and rises from her chair.

“No,” Grawar says hastily, “I mean, yes, he is unharmed, it is only” –

“What?” Laerwen demands, on her feet still, her pulse thundering in her ears.

“He is well enough, in body at least,” says Grawar, “but I was merely concerned – do you know – can he speak?”

Laerwen frowns. Legolas’s speech came late, but all at once – after three years of silence, he dashed up to them one day and burst into an epic narrative about the trials and triumphs of a family of squirrels living in a nearby oak, complete with snatches of song. Since then, he has been a vibrant conversationalist: full of questions and jests. “Certainly. Do you find that he has difficulty?”

Grawar throws up his hands in exasperation. “Then he is merely willful!” he exclaims. “He will speak no word to me, not even to read aloud, however much I cajole or demand! Is it insolence, or” –

Laerwen holds up a hand. “Not insolence, surely,” she says. Legolas has always been sweet-tempered with her. “I will speak to him before your next lesson.”

* * *

“Legolas,” Laerwen says that evening.

They have planned this – Siril has always been skilled at teasing Legolas’s thoughts from him with careful questions, but in this situation, bold honesty is called for. They want Legolas to feel safe speaking to them. So Laerwen will ask outright, and Siril will watch.

“What is it?” he asks. It is clear that something is bothering him; he was subdued when he came in to eat, rather than bursting with his usual energy about something new and lovely he has seen, or some series of questions he wishes to ask.

“I spoke to Grawar today,” says Laerwen carefully. “It seems something has gone amiss in your lessons. Will you tell us what?”

“Nothing is amiss,” Legolas says – too quickly. He has become suddenly and raptly interested in his hands, picking beneath the fingernails as if to rid them of dirt, though they are clean to Siril’s eyes.

Laerwen moves toward him slowly, gently, like he is a deer she does not wish to startle. “That cannot be true,” she says. “But we are not inclined to believe ill of you, if that is what you fear. Will you not open your heart to us?”

He draws back again, fidgeting more intently with his hands, and Siril begins to worry that he will tear the skin. She gives Laerwen a significant look, and her wife backs away, leaving Legolas plenty of space.

“Would you rather we left this conversation for another time?” Siril asks. “Would that make you more comfortable?”

Legolas shrugs one shoulder, then tilts his head to the other side, continuing the rigorous inspection of his fingers.

Siril takes a deep breath and steps back to join Laerwen, giving her another look. _Wait_. It reminds her of when Legolas first began to speak – of how long it took him, yet how fluidly it came when he was ready at last. This is the same – if they wait for him to open his heart, he will do so, once he deems it safe.

At least, she hopes he will.

They call for food and have the table set as always, and Siril busies herself serving up their plates. Laerwen shadows her, both of them quiet, both of them waiting.

They sit for a few more moments in silence. Legolas picks at his food. Laerwen seems to have little interest in her own, but eats anyway, her motions stiff with forced normalcy.

“Nothing is amiss,” Legolas says at last, his voice barely a whisper. “Not with the lessons, anyway – only with me.”

“Not with you,” Laerwen says immediately, just as Siril asks, “What do you think is amiss?”

Legolas looks back and forth between the two of them, perhaps inclined to laugh, but the smile falls before it can form. “I know not,” he murmurs, “it is – like a block, like something has lodged in my throat, and I cannot – I dare not speak.”

“Is it Grawar?” Laerwen asks, her voice the same forced calm as her motions. “Does he frighten you?”

“No,” Legolas says – too quick, too light. He does not meet their eyes. Yes, then.

Their eyes meet across the table, and Laerwen nods. She will take care of that. Beyond that – they must tread carefully here.

“You need speak no more tonight,” Siril says. “But we hope you know that you need not fear to tell us anything, Legolas.”

“More,” says Laerwen fiercely, “you must never believe anything is wrong with you. You are a treasure, Legolas – and anyone who will not devote the patience to seeing that is unworthy of you. Please remember that, if nothing else.”

Legolas nods, his lower lip quivering – and then he hurls himself around the table and into Laerwen’s arms. The motion is sudden, he betrays almost no hint of his intention – but still she has her arms up in time to catch him, and she holds him tight to her while he buries his head against her shoulder, stroking his hair and rocking him back and forth.

Siril comes over to squeeze herself onto the bench where they sit, and Legolas unwinds one hand from Laerwen’s tunic to catch Siril’s own and hold it tight.

That night, Laerwen dismisses Grawar as Legolas’s tutor – and Siril pays a visit to Celair, to ask if ze will take on the duty instead.


	33. Part IV, Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here I attempt to cram a TON of information into one chapter. We'll see how well it works.
> 
> Also, there's a little outtake kind of between the previous chapter and this one. It was originally going to be part of this story, but eventually I decided it didn't fit, so I guess it's like a deleted scene. But hey - good thing I already posted it! I wrote it before I had my timelines straight, so there's some details that aren't quite right, but if you're interested, [Rapid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19736425) has been up for a few months and consists of a young Legolas being taken river rafting. :)

Legolas is more than twenty years old now, and he no longer asks them to put him to bed each night. It is good to watch him grow, but Siril cannot help missing the ritual of singing him to peaceful dreams, cannot help mourning the passing of his youth.

More than that, it gives her something to do in the evenings when Laerwen is away with defense arrangements. Siril's own role in kingdom politics has quietly shifted, domestic disputes dwindling in frequency as their citizens cleave ever closer together in the face of a greater threat. She still sits in on council during the day, and occasionally accompanies Laerwen on missions that take her out of the forest, but those too have become less and less frequent. Her role is now as the eyes and ears of the forest, and for all that she gives reports to Thranduil and Laerwen, she works often separately from them. It is with Legolas that she and Laerwen most often find time to spend together.

And at night. Night, at least, is still theirs.

Siril rises when the door opens. Laerwen sweeps inside and sheds her military guise along with her cloak, which she tosses haphazardly across a chair. She comes easily into Siril's arms, the hard set of her shoulders and shields in her eyes momentarily melted into softness, and Siril smiles against her lips. This, at least, is still as natural as it ever was.

"I have been thinking," Laerwen says when they part.

"An unusual habit for you."

"Hush, you." Laerwen swats at her, and Siril dodges inside her reach to press another kiss to her mouth, and they occupy themselves pleasantly in that manner for some time.

Finally, Laerwen pulls back with a sigh and sinks down onto the edge of their bed, pulling at the end of a braid. "I have been thinking about Legolas, and how he likes to watch the archers."

"That he does." Siril slides onto the bed beside and then behind her, fitting her legs neatly around Laerwen's hips and resting her chin on her wife's shoulder.

Laerwen twists her head around to give Siril a look of playful frustration. "You are making this very difficult," she says, wriggling her hand where Siril has trapped it between her own belly and Laerwen's back.

"That," Siril says, "is because that is not your task." She brushes a kiss against the exposed side of Laerwen's neck, nuzzling at her ear and giggling when Laerwen shivers. "Let me."

"As my lady commands." Laerwen goes still and lets Siril pull back to continue the task of undoing her braid, sliding her fingers through the emerging waves.

"Good. Now that you have stopped trying to attend to my duties, I will let you speak." Siril nips at Laerwen's earlobe. "What have you been thinking about Legolas?"

Laerwen sighs. "I fear it may be time to allow him to learn archery."

"Why do you fear this?" Siril's work has taken her hands up to Laerwen's shoulders now; she pauses in her lazy untangling to massage the muscles there, feeling tension release. "You tell me you had begun to learn the blade when you were at a similar age. And the bow is even more a prized skill of our people."

_And a necessary one_, she does not say. Neither does she bring up the rule that Maeglad and Thranduil instituted twenty years ago, shortly before Legolas’s birth – the requirement that all children be trained in self-defense. Laerwen could not have known, then, that her own brother would soon be subject to it.

Laerwen says nothing of it, either. "I know. My heart tells me it is time, and he may even be glad of it. It is only" – She drops her head as Siril presses a thumb to the back of her neck, and does not finish.

"It is your promise to your mother," Siril says. "Not to let him grow up a soldier."

It is the first time either of them has said it outright, but she has seen it in every word Laerwen says of her brother, every hour they spend together: her determination to show her brother peaceful afternoons on the river, to protect him from those who would frighten him and to encourage his love of singing and the simple joys of the world. More importantly, she sees it in the way Laerwen changes within their chambers and outside them – the shift she took on after she returned from war, nearly two thousand years gone now.

She remembers Laerwen's words of long ago, when they were first stumbling their way into love: _I feel I can be just Laerwen with you_. Laerwen has spent her life being crafted into the perfect princess, the perfect soldier, and she may not resent it but that does not mean she wishes it on Legolas – for all that he will come of age to a less carefree world.

And there is more, Siril realizes – Laerwen does not want to be commander to her brother.

Siril finishes undoing the long braid, and then works her fingers into the smaller ones woven into it. Laerwen does not speak until Siril has undone three of them, and then she sighs. "What do you think?"

Siril continues combing her fingers gently through Laerwen's hair, teasing it free of its confinement. "I do not know the ways of war," she says. "I have come to understand what it is to be under siege, but I am no soldier."

"I know," Laerwen interrupts, and twists around until Siril's fingers fall from her hair. She grasps Siril's wrists, and her eyes fix on Siril's own, grey and stormy. "I know, do you not see? You know hardship and suffering, but you cling to your _self_ through it all; you do not harden; you do not give way to death and despair. I would" – She swallows. "I would have him be like you, not like me."

“And do you not understand in your turn?" Siril leans forward, tilting her head until her forehead rests against Laerwen's own. "Do you not know that your spirit is just as bright, just as beautiful? Do you not know that what you have given up only makes you more of who you are? You would give anything for those you love, for your kingdom, for your home. Do you not see that that makes you worthy of being admired?"

"But I would have him give up nothing!" Laerwen does not pull back, but still her hands are hard around Siril's wrists, still her eyes rage. "I would not have him make those sacrifices; I would not have him tainted by" –

"Laerwen." Siril pulls her wrists out of her wife's grasp and seizes her shoulders instead, holding her close. "We are living in _Mirkwood_." She says the name deliberately, knowing the way it grates on both of them, and Laerwen's eyes narrow at the sound of it. "Children now do not have the luxury that I did – to grow up safe, to cultivate only life and not learn the ways of dealing death. Legolas is a bright spirit, and will remain one so long as we continue to nurture it, but he must be taught one day to defend himself against the darkness." Laerwen’s lips press tightly together, her chin thrust out in defiance, but Siril knows she is right. "He is your brother, and what decision you make I will speak for you" – it is their way, after all, to present a unified voice in public – "but now or later, he will have to learn. And perhaps it is best if he learns on his own terms, while it is still a pleasure and not a necessity."

Laerwen lets herself fall forward all at once, and Siril catches her, arms strong around her waist, one hand rubbing her back as Laerwen's forehead sinks to rest against her shoulder. With the other hand, Siril reaches up once more to the half-undone braids, finishing her work in silence as Laerwen leans against her.

She finishes at last, teasing her fingertips at Laerwen's scalp. Finally, she says quietly, "You cannot protect him forever."

"I know," Laerwen murmurs against her. "But I cannot seem to stop trying."

* * *

There are three students in Legolas’s class – so far from the score or so who trained in weaponry with Laerwen herself – and the other two are ten and twenty years older than he is, approaching adulthood. It makes Laerwen’s heart ache to see so plainly how few children have been born in the last fifty years. This is not all of them; there are some who have chosen to concentrate on different weapons or who are not yet ready to begin their lessons – but –

But.

Perhaps it will be good for Legolas. He has had so few companions outside of his family in all his young life. While Laerwen did not find close friends during her lessons, she at least found company and amusement. And the world has changed so much since her own childhood, perhaps things will be different for Legolas.

She tries her hardest not to hover over him when they retire for their evening meal on his first day of classes. Remembers – ah, it is so long now since she was his age, but she remembers her mother’s own delicacy in her younger days, remembers how Cuindis would ask the lightest probing questions or remain silent altogether, and how that feeling of safety always led Laerwen to confess her feelings.

But Legolas is quiet tonight, not bursting with his usual energy and enthusiasm, and Laerwen has to squeeze Siril’s hand hard to keep from asking.

Three weeks and three weekly classes later, when nothing has improved, Laerwen ventures at last to say, “Legolas, are you enjoying your archery lessons?”

His head snaps up like a startled rabbit. “Yes!” he says, his voice practically panicked, a clearly false smile hitched onto his face. “Yes, they are excellent, and Maeglad is a brilliant teacher. He has much to impart.”

Laerwen struggles to push down her responding frown, struggles not to pry – to let him tell her on his own time. But clearly something, somehow, has gone very wrong.

* * *

Two weeks later, Legolas does not come to eat with them.

Siril has been watching Laerwen grow frantic over the last few months, can practically see her biting her tongue against the urge to ask Legolas what has been ailing him. Siril herself has tried to be patient, to make space within their conversations for Legolas to finally confess of his own will – but she understands.

And today, as sunset gives way into dusk, and Legolas still has not come to join them, she reaches out for Laerwen’s wrists, probes at the tension in her forearms. “I will hold you back no longer,” she says softly.

She needs say no more; at those words Laerwen is already on her feet. “_Thank you_,” she says fervently, and drags Siril up as well.

He is not in his chambers, nor in the palace gardens – not even in the archery courts. By the time they have ventured there, outside the palace proper, Laerwen’s concern has infected Siril as well. Legolas knows better than to venture outside alone this late in the evening – but then, he has been so strange lately, so unhappy. Perhaps he left the safety of the caverns – or perhaps he was apprehended while it was still daylight and carried off –

Siril’s own worry is too great to allow for any calming words; Laerwen’s grip around her hand has grown nearly painful by the time they encounter Maeglad in the archery courts.

“Maeglad!” says Laerwen, dropping Siril’s hand to rush forward. “Legolas did not come to eat with us this evening, and we cannot find him anywhere. Do you know if he might have gone somewhere after lessons?”

“After” – Maeglad frowns. “Then your father has not spoken to you?”

Laerwen and Siril exchange a swift, speaking glance. Thranduil speaks to them about nothing more personal than the running of the kingdom and the organizing of the military these days. “About Legolas’s lessons?” says Laerwen.

“In a manner of speaking.” Maeglad’s frown grows more pronounced. “Legolas has not come to a lesson since his second week.”

In the beat of silence that follows, Siril knows they are both counting swiftly backwards in their minds: Legolas’s false smiles and assurances of success – how long has he been lying to them? Why has he not attended his lessons? And if he has a good reason – why did he not share it with them?

Laerwen speaks first. “And you went to my father with this news?”

Siril’s stomach sinks. Thranduil has been as distant from Legolas as her own parents were with her as a child . . . and she knows what would have happened, had someone told her parents that she was somehow lackluster in her expected performance.

She and Laerwen exchange another glance – and, without another word to Maeglad, both turn and run.

They no longer even need to speak to communicate, not about this. They only need to confirm.

Thranduil sits not in his study, but in his throne room. He has retired here more and more often, as though using the formal air of the room to preserve the distance he maintains between himself and everyone else, since the departure of his wife and his friend together. He does not even open his confidence to Laerwen, she has despaired, even after five hundred years of working together as closely as he ever did with his own father.

From the look on her wife’s face now, Siril can imagine Laerwen intends to force him to do so tonight.

“Adar.” Laerwen marches directly up to the throne, no bows or sign of formality. She does not speak to her king, but to her father.

Thranduil looks up, his eyebrows creasing with the slightest hint of surprise – more emotion than Siril has seen from him in years. “Laerwen.”

“Where is Legolas?”

Thranduil blinks. They have not confronted him on this, and Siril begins to wonder if perhaps they should have done so long ago – but Laerwen seems determined to make up for lost time. “My brother,” she demands. “Your _son_, in case you have forgotten.”

“The last time I counted, I was aware of how many children I had, Laerwen.” Thranduil’s voice is drier than autumn leaves, his usual tone of warning when disrespected.

Laerwen’s hands curl into fists at her sides; tension radiates from her, but she keeps her own tone light and sweet. “Indeed? That is new information to me.”

“Laerwen.” Thranduil’s tone sharpens into steel rebuke. “Mind yourself. I have not forgotten that you are my children, but it seems both of you have forgotten today that I am your father.”

“Then you did speak to Legolas?” A thousand years ago, Siril would not have dared interrupt a battle of wills between father and daughter, but now is different. She has been family long enough to both of them – and she is concerned enough for Legolas – that it matters not. Thranduil might be for Laerwen to manage, but Legolas is more important right now.

Thranduil’s eyes soften somewhat when he looks on her. “I did. Maeglad informed me that he had not seen fit to attend his archery lessons, so I took it upon myself to remind him of his duties.”

The sound Laerwen makes is closer to a hiss than anything Siril has heard in a long time. She turns to face Siril. “Go find him,” she orders: the voice she uses on her soldiers, as though she has forgotten Siril is her wife and not a warrior at her disposal. But in this moment, Siril cannot protest – especially not after the words that follow. “My father and I need to have a conversation.”

* * *

She finds him easily enough, now that she knows to look outside the mountain. Legolas has always taken after his mother, after the Silvan side of his family – and like any true wood-elf, he seeks solace in the trees.

This close to their dwelling, they can trust the forest without question, so Siril opens herself up to the voice of the wood and listens. His song is easy to pick out once she listens for it, dulled and dampened as it is by sorrow; she merely follows the hummed reassurance of the trees seeking to comfort him, and there he is.

He has taken refuge in a cluster of beeches, in the squat, sturdy tree at the center. Siril makes her way towards him, slowly and deliberately enough to give him notice of her coming, and climbs up to meet him, glad he has chosen a tree that will hold her weight without protest.

He sits in the crook of a branch, drawn into himself in a huddle of awkward half-grown limbs and straight black hair, face pressed into his knees. She settles herself on the branch beside him, close but not touching, and waits.

“Siril?” he murmurs at last.

“I am here.”

He sniffles. “Did he speak to you?”

“Maeglad?” she says. “Or your father?”

His breath hitches, and she longs to pull him close – but she will wait. “Both, then, I suppose,” he says at length.

“Yes,” she says. “But they said very little to me. I would rather hear from you what is the matter.”

“What they said is the truth.” Legolas looks up at last, eyes swollen, cheeks stained with tears. “I am a disappointment.”

“Oh, Legolas.” She loses her battle against her own self-control and wraps an arm around his shoulders; the ease with which he leans into her assures her that it was the right decision. “Legolas, no. Did your father tell you that?”

“He did not need to.” Legolas shuffles closer to her. “I know how much effort everyone here puts into keeping us safe. To shirk my own tasks in that regard is nothing more than failure.”

“I do not know what your father said,” says Siril carefully, “but I am sure he did not mean you are a failure or a disappointment. And neither your sister nor I believe you would stop attending your lessons without a good reason – but will you not tell me what that reason is? For we would help you find a solution, if we can.”

“It is foolish,” Legolas says.

“I doubt that” –

“It is the other students!” The words burst from Legolas’s mouth, and then he hides his face in her tunic. “I do not – they are” –

“They are what?” A slow boil of anger begins in Siril’s stomach; the most nightmarish scenarios play out in her mind. “Have they done something to you, Legolas?”

“No!” he says, all in a rush, “no, no – that is why I say it is foolish, they – I am afraid of them, with no reason. They did nothing to me but welcome me; they are my peers and I know they should be my friends, but I cannot speak to them; I can hardly look at them.” He clings to her as he has not done since he was years younger. “I could not tell my father; he has commanded more people than I could ever imagine for thousands of years, and – and Laerwen has done the same, and – I know you must tell her, but she will be so disappointed.”

Despite everything, Siril cannot help but laugh a little at the absurdity of that notion. “Legolas,” she says, “do you not know that your sister values you higher than every single leaf in this forest? There is little you could do to lose her esteem.”

“How?” he whispers. “How, when she is so brave?”

Siril hesitates, but something in Legolas’s words rings true to her – reminds her of herself, so long ago. “Legolas,” she says, “did your sister ever tell you how she and I met?”

He startles. “No.”

She smiles. “I spied on her,” she confesses. They have told few people this story as it truly began, but she thinks Legolas needs it, in this moment. “I saw her practicing her swordplay in the forest and I thought she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.”

At last, he uncurls his neck and looks up at her, blinking teary eyes. “And?” he says. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.” Siril laughs at the memory, nudging him a little closer. “I watched her for weeks without saying a word – and would have gone on doing so in silence if she had not called out to me.” A tiny smile has begun to form on his face, and Siril rejoices to see it. So many at Legolas’s age have no stomach for tales of romance, but there is a deep sweetness in his spirit that warms Siril’s heart. “And now we are wed. I tell you this so you know that Laerwen holds no scorn for shyness.”

His smile fades. “This is no shyness,” he says. “I know well what that word is, and this is – something other. Like a force that takes over my body and mind, one I lack the strength to fight.”

“Perhaps not.” For all that Siril remembers her own timidity, she cannot claim to have been shaken to her spirit the way Legolas seems to have been now. But she cannot help thinking about the weight that rests on his young shoulders: the weight of war and protection and duty – a weight that she did not have to bear until she was much older than he is now – and wondering how she might have been, in his place. “But whatever it is, we will help you find a way through it. And I promise you, no matter what happens, you will lose neither our love nor our respect.” She squeezes his shoulder. “Can you believe me?”

He sniffles one last time and draws a hand over his face. “I can try.”

* * *

Laerwen watches Siril leave to find her brother with a flash of relief. There is no one she would trust more to find Legolas and to listen to his story – Siril could coax a dwarf into sharing the secret of their language. That task is best suited to her.

For herself, Laerwen squares up opposite her father, feeling more inclined to fight than any time they have ever faced one another in the sparring circle.

All light of indulgence is gone from his eyes; his face is flat and hard. Clearly he thinks the two of them have tested him beyond his limits – but Laerwen feels her own jaw tensing in response. He will find her a match for him today.

“Well,” he says at last, after a moment of letting the silent stretch until she could squirm – one of his usual tricks. “Tell me the meaning of this.”

She does not mince words. “What did you say to Legolas?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I merely reminded him of his duties to the realm, and the consequences of shirking them. Do you claim that such a reminder is beyond my right to give?”

“Yes!” she bursts out – and years of unspoken frustration pour out in that one word. It was meant to be a rhetorical question – she is not meant to defy her father and her king thus, but in this moment, she does not care. All the anger that she has spent so long learning to restrain surges to the surface – if she dares not give voice to it outside this room, he at least will know her feelings, finally. “Yes, I do!”

His expression narrows into a glare. “I will not have insubordination in matters of our safety, Laerwen,” he says. “I have allowed you much freedom in Legolas’s affairs, but this” –

“Allowed?” she sputters. “Allowed – you – Adar!” Enough is enough. “Before this, when was the last conversation you had with Legolas?”

“I fail to see how that is relevant,” he says coldly.

“Humor me,” she growls. “When was it?”

Defiance alone he would countenance no further, but she has him here. The glower softens only slightly with a hint of confusion. “I” –

“Why was his first tutor dismissed?” she continues, relentless in her attack now that his guard has faltered. “What was the first poem he learned to recite in Westron? What was his favorite lullaby when being put to bed at night?”

Thranduil says nothing, but the flicker of shock in his eyes speaks of more than just indignation at her defiance. She has him now; she is _right_ and she knows it; she will not back down. “You do not know any of these things, Adar, and do you know why? It is because you have given Legolas none of your attention since Naneth left!” Few know him well enough to see the tiniest flinch at the mention of their mother, but Laerwen does, and savage satisfaction floods in her belly. “And you stand here, furious at me for defying you, and you know nothing at all about _your son_, and yet you have the nerve to accuse _him_ of shirking his duties?”

She subsides, panting now, the frantic energy of fury fading from her blood. At first all she feels in its wake is a dull euphoria, but as she takes in her father’s bone-white face, the slight tremor in his hands that shows she has struck him to the heart, that satisfaction curdles and sinks. The backs of her eyes sting with sudden, unexpected tears, and her next words come in a murmur. “The safety of the realm may be your purview, but Legolas is mine.”

The room falls silent – but the air no longer crackles with the tension that precedes a fight. Thranduil takes a few slow, clumsy steps backwards and sinks into his throne, passes a trembling hand over his face. He sags in the upright seat, loose skin on a frame of bone.

“Why did you dismiss his first tutor?” he says at last – as though that is the most important thing to be gleaned from what she has said.

And to her surprise, he is right. “Because he was afraid to speak.” Her legs are trembling, she realizes with dim surprise; she drops into her own chair beside her father’s with little grace. “He was a nervous child – not with us, but anyone he did not know or did not trust. We replaced Grawar with Celair because ze is family – and patient enough to treat Legolas gently.”

“He did not speak to me,” Thranduil whispers. “When I reprimanded him – he said not a word, merely nodded.”

She has not the heart to remind him why that was so. It is no longer worthy of anger; all she feels is grief – the mournful heaviness that is so different from the constant fear for their livelihood or concern for her brother – the feeling she has been pushing down and away since her mother departed. How could their family have become so broken in such a short time? How can it hope to be mended?

“Siril will find him?” says Thranduil at last, after another long moment of silence.

“I have no doubt.”

“I will let you meet both of them first. It is your right.” He hesitates, looking more uncertain than she has seen him in a long time. “But if Legolas is willing, will you – will you tell him that I would like to speak to him, when he is ready?”

She does not know if it will do any good, not this early, but she has not the heart to question him – and she cannot help but hope, herself.

She nods.


	34. Part IV, Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: time is about to start moving a LOT faster here.

Siril and Legolas make their way back to their chambers just before the night patrols begin their shifts. Laerwen toyed with the idea of going out to find them, but decided it would be best if they made their way back on Legolas’s own time – and she did not fear too greatly for their safety, knowing that they would be together.

All the same, the relaxing of her muscles when they enter the rooms reminds her of the lie of that last thought. It is all she can do not to spring up and sweep her brother into her arms, but she holds back and waits. He shuffles in at Siril’s side, his face swollen as though he has been weeping, but his eyes dry.

“Legolas,” she says, unable to restrain at least that much.

“Laerwen,” says Siril, when Legolas does not reply. “I would have you tell your brother that nothing he could ever do would lessen your regard for him.”

“Of course!” She is nearly hurt that he would doubt it – has she ever given him cause to think so? But then, perhaps after his talk with their father, it is only natural. “You could never disappoint me, no matter what.”

“Thank you,” he mumbles, his voice quiet and stuffed.

She cannot help it – she holds out her arms. And as though he were waiting for just such an invitation, he stumbles into them and lets her hold him. “You are not a disappointment, Legolas,” she murmurs into his hair. “None of us think so. And no matter what he may have said to you, Adar knows better.”

He flinches against her, just slightly, and she almost wishes to hold it back, to protect him – from his own father! But it is not only her sympathy for her father, not only her wish for their family’s pain to somehow ease that makes her say it: somehow she knows that Legolas will not relax until he has heard the apology from Thranduil’s own lips. “And you do not need to do anything until you are ready, but he requests to speak to you again, when you are willing.”

* * *

The next morning, Thranduil cancels all his daily meetings and Laerwen escorts Legolas to his chambers – his private rooms, less formal even than his study. The two of them remain in there for a long, long time. Laerwen does not know what passes between them, but when they emerge, they both look as if they have been weeping.

That night, for the first time since Cuindis’s departure, Thranduil invites them all to share an evening meal.

* * *

Legolas resumes his archery lessons alone, and Maeglad reports to Thranduil and Laerwen that his training is progressing the better for it. “He has more raw talent than any of my other students,” he tells them, “and enough passion to hone it into true skill. I know he is yet too young to take up a place in our official forces, but already I am pondering a few ideas for his placement, when the time comes.”

“I am proud to hear it,” says Thranduil. “You will, of course, seek my approval before making any such assignment.”

“Of course,” promises Maeglad – but it is her father’s concern more than Maeglad’s agreement that truly warms Laerwen’s heart.

* * *

The sun has barely set on the day exactly fifty years after Legolas’s birth before Maeglad is requesting an audience with them.

It is no surprise; the hints he has dropped about his new pet project have grown heavier than boulders over the last years especially. And Thranduil has paid close attention to Legolas’s progress in lessons – certainly as a way, though Laerwen is not unkind enough to say it out loud, of making up for his absence in Legolas’s earlier life.

(Legolas did not seem to know how to react at first, but of late he has grown accustomed to it – perhaps even grateful. He and Thranduil may never share the same ease that Laerwen knows with either of them, but it is something, at least, and something that gives her hope, despite everything.)

“I have identified the most promising young archers from all those I teach,” explains Maeglad, the words tumbling out of him as though they cannot bear another instant in captivity, “those who will quickly surpass even higher-ranked peers once placed by their sides – along with the exceptional few in the patrols I lead. We have spoken often in meetings about needing to alter our military strategies, and I would like to try working with these few in a new capacity – a small raiding party apt at moving swiftly in silence, trained in the bow and knives.”

The very weapons Legolas uses. He began training in dagger combat with Ruanna a few years after he had begun his archery lessons, at Maeglad’s suggestion – it is only further confirmation of how long Maeglad has contemplated this project.

“Interesting,” Thranduil muses, a spark of interest flashing in his eyes. Whatever his worry for Legolas, it is only natural that his military mind might race swiftly through the possibilities. “In a form of stealth warfare?”

“Yes,” says Maeglad. “We know that standing against our foes outright is not an option for us – we lack the numbers, and their source will only spawn more. But we know this forest better than they ever will. Our forces have already begun to rely more on stealth and speed than brute force, but I would train a small party whose task it is to precede other units and weaken our foes through a combination of scouting and harrying: thinning their numbers where they can, laying traps, and bringing back reports.”

Laerwen nods along with her father. Maeglad has ever been a voice of caution amidst other, bolder advisors, but his caution seems more and more like mere prudence as their situation darkens. “And you think Legolas would be well suited to this project?” she says.

Maeglad meets her eyes for a moment, as though he understands what she does not say – that she means to protect Legolas’s spirit as well as his body, as best she might. But he has been teaching her brother for years; he knows. “I do,” he says. “It will be a small party of only the most talented few – and Legolas has an exceptional talent in archery, and an affinity with the forest that can only be to our advantage.”

“That is from his mother,” says Thranduil softly, and Laerwen tenses at the thought of what her mother would say if she could hear this conversation, if she knew how Legolas’s gifts are to be put to use – and if she knew how badly Laerwen has failed in honoring her last request.

But there is nothing she can do for it – nothing any of them can. Their lives are what they are, and for all that she may wish to keep her brother forever under her protection, they cannot deny the kingdom any protection. And for all that he must begin learning earlier than she ever did, it is his duty to aid where he can, as well.

“If the king approves,” she says quietly, “I am inclined to agree.”

* * *

For the first few months of Legolas’s work as a soldier, Laerwen tries her hardest not to hover.

To her surprise, it is her father who holds her back – who reminds her of her own experience in such a situation, how she would have been offended and frustrated had her parents interfered. It is Legolas’s experience to have, he reminds her; his place to learn.

And so, for months, Laerwen is good. She keeps to her own duties, restraining herself to listening avidly to Maeglad’s reports about Legolas’s patrol – but he, perhaps in delight in tormenting her, rarely lets anything personal slip. In the evenings, when the four of them retire for their nightly shared meal, she restrains herself from asking any questions beyond what Legolas himself chooses to share. And at night, Siril laughs gently at her as she groans in desperate frustration.

“If anything were truly wrong, Maeglad would have told you,” she reminds Laerwen, and for all that she is right, it does not help to hear.

But little by little, Legolas seems to relax. Although the task of a warrior is more of a burden on the spirit than an ease, it seems there is something about it that has allowed Legolas to sit more comfortably into his own skin, to settle into a position that he can finally feel sure of. He finally looks calm enough, one day, that Laerwen dares to venture a few light questions. And over the next weeks, he begins to share without being asked, just as he would have when he was a child caught up in his observation of the world.

And, Laerwen cannot help noticing, as time goes on his descriptions and anecdotes more often include his fellow warriors – one in particular.

After a few weeks of this, Thranduil sits forward from where he has been listening in silence. “Legolas,” he says quietly, and Legolas looks over at him, surprised. “If you wish, some night you may invite her to join us here.”

* * *

They are both laughing when Legolas brings her to visit – come directly from training drills, it seems, still chattering animatedly and laughing as Laerwen has not heard Legolas laugh in years. Laerwen can hear them all the way down the hall, loud as Legolas rarely is anymore, even here in his own space. Siril smiles at her and they both rise to greet their visitors.

She is taller than Legolas, but only just, and wears her hair tied back in a braid fastened high behind her head – one that flips towards the floor as Legolas seizes her in a mock headlock. She laughs and kicks out at his legs, forcing him to let her go to jump out of the way, and they exchange a series of half-blows that never connect, still laughing in a way that makes Laerwen’s own smile stretch impossibly wide.

Still, she clears her throat quietly, and they both spring to attention. Legolas’s friend straightens immediately, her eyes flying wide open, and she jerks forward as if to kneel, but Legolas rests a hand on her shoulder and shakes his head.

“No need for that,” Laerwen says. “We merely heard you and thought we would come welcome you in.”

“I – thank you,” she says, a little breathless. “Your Highnesses, I am – honored to meet you.” She bows to them. “I am Eleniel.”

So Legolas has said. They know that she is near his own age but slightly older, and one of the few in their unit who can match him with both the bow and dagger. He has given no family name, and Laerwen notices that Eleniel herself has not either – but that is of no matter. All that matters is the way Legolas beams when she follows them inside, how comfortable he looks in his own skin, in a way Laerwen has never seen him around any of his other peers. The ease with which they communicate, all that evening and over the years to come – the hybrid language of touch and words that passes between them, that seems to tell the other just what is needed.

Laerwen remembers Legolas’s younger years, the delight in his face each time he would bring her some small object to admire: the pride and joy in the treasure he had found.

This seems the most precious thing he has discovered yet.

* * *

Legolas and Eleniel move through the ranks at the same time, rising with a rapidity that frightens Laerwen: at how many spaces are constantly vacated to fill, as warriors fall or are injured badly enough that they must be reassigned. It is too short a time, she thinks, before their small group is declared ready to take on full status as its own unit – and it is too soon for Legolas to be appointed the captain. But, as Maeglad reminds her gently when she demands answers from him, they need the warriors, and Legolas is too capable to be demoted merely because she would keep him out of harm.

There is, of course, no question who will be his second.

For all her concern, Laerwen cannot help but marvel at it. Legolas has risen higher in a shorter time than she did until after she had fought in a full war. But then – the urgency of the time is different. Her brother has grown up in the midst of wartime in a way she did not.

_I am sorry, Naneth,_ she thinks. She would have it otherwise, if she could.

But for what it is, for all that she regrets the world Legolas must grow up in, she cannot help being proud of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END OF PART IV (I did warn you).


	35. Part V: Weathering, Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, time moving faster here as we race towards the present (while trying to at least touch on all the significant Mirkwood events I can). Again, the lore is inconsistent and in some places I didn't read as carefully as I should have and just did what I wanted.

The wizard wanders into their realm on the west-blowing wind.

The patrols of the eastern border bring him to the palace, as has become customary with any intruder. He did not struggle and seems harmless enough – he wears the guise of a man, grey-bearded and wrinkled as are the eldest of their kind, and when he first encountered the heavily-armed elves he blinked at them, and spouted some nonsense about having lost his way.

That alone would be enough of a reason to take him deeper into their realm – even elves are not safe alone among the fell creatures who wander here; a mortal would have no chance. But any elf knows better than to be fooled by his harmless appearance. Even if not for the aura of power that radiates off him, the canny gleam in his eye would be reason enough.

There have been whispers of such beings from the trees and creatures just outside their bounds –but they have thus far been too faint and unobtrusive to justify risking an investigating party, not when they are so occupied with their more immediate threat. And anyway, the farther from their inhabited realm, the less they find they can trust the forest itself – for all that the corruption pains them all.

This one, though – this one who has come into their realm deliberately, for all he might pretend ignorance – this one is different.

He has been here before, Legolas tells them while the rest of his unit waits outside to be granted audience. Never near enough to be seen, but his presence in the song is familiar, the change of tone in the way his spirit reverberates off all the other living things around them – They have never been able to give chase, but they know him, now that he stands before them.

“Well,” says Thranduil, sighing, “if he has indeed evaded you before, then it seems this audience is exactly what he wants now.”

“Would you have them escort him away, then?” says Legolas.

Their father looks sorely tempted, but he shakes his head. “No, we cannot afford to turn down the chance to learn of a potential friend or foe merely out of spite.” He sighs heavily. “Send him in.”

The wizard seems to decide as soon as he is standing before them that it is no good continuing the act of a harmless man. His back seems to straighten, his eyes to sharpen, under Thranduil’s regard, and he returns the stare with equal dignity and confidence.

“So,” says Thranduil. “What brings you to my realm?”

“I was merely wandering,” says the intruder, the falsehood made only more brazen by the calm set of his face. “It honors me, certainly, that a mere passerby might warrant the attention of the Elvenking himself.”

Laerwen’s lips tighten, but she leaves the prying to her father.

“If honored indeed you are, then perhaps you might humor me with an answer,” says Thranduil lightly. “Few wanderers have the wherewithal to find their way through our realm, let alone evade the less friendly guards around the borders. I can assure you that you would not find similar honor if taken as a guest by one of them.”

It is not so much a threat as a reminder: they know their unexpected guest has no reason to fear the spiders and orcs here – and if he was wandering alone so close to nightfall, he surely cannot fear the wraiths either. He can hardly hope to pass as innocent if he may travel alone in this forest – in this so-named _Mirkwood_ – with so little concern for his own safety.

He dips his chin in concession to the point. “Very well,” he says. “I will speak plainly. I was investigating.”

“Investigating, indeed,” murmurs Thranduil. “In whose interest, I wonder.”

“In the interest of Middle-earth, if you must know,” says the stranger irritably.

“Ah, and the goings-on in my forest are of interest to Middle-earth!” The feigned humility is so affected that Legolas makes a tiny sound of almost amused terror; Laerwen squeezes his shoulder. “It flatters me to hear it. You may carry those words back to your master, if he asks.”

“I answer to no master this side of the sea, Thranduil Oropherion,” snaps the wizard, “and you would do well to remember it.”

_This side of the sea._ He is come, then, from the West – but how recently, Laerwen cannot ask, dares not break her silence. She would ask how they can trust him to tell the truth – but she knows it, knows from the aura of power that radiates from him that he is what he claims. And that, if he wished harm to them, they would already have met it at his hands.

“I will be sure not to forget,” says Thranduil dryly, “should we be graced once more with your auspicious presence.” He raises an eyebrow. “But you have yet to answer my question as to the nature of your doings here. What do you investigate in my realm? And have you found what you seek?”

But no matter how they press, the wizard will give them no straight answers.

That night, they give him a room in their mountain home – under heavy guard, of course, carefully watched. But it does not surprise any of them when their guards rush to them in the morning with the urgent news that he is gone – slipped from their grasp.

* * *

It is then that they turn to Siril.

She does not know quite how or when it happened, but since Cuindis’s departure, this situation has become her particular domain within the kingdom. Laerwen took on the role as diplomat and negotiator: her honest demeanor and firm certainty make her someone other leaders trust, someone who will negotiate fairly for their realm. But her straightforward approach sometimes needs subtle support, and that has become Siril’s duty.

She rarely accompanies Laerwen on trips out of the wood, but Iruion and Nieriel, her closest contacts, always do. They are travelers, messengers, in their own rights – and they both have friends and contacts all over Middle-earth. And somehow it came to be that any information they glean, they bring back to Siril.

It is not so surprising, she supposes. She has always had a better ear for the forest around them than most elves. All this has done is extend her senses beyond their borders.

She speaks to Iruion and Nieriel, quiet and private. Sends them on some errand to the new-made mannish kingdom of Dale, and then on another petty trade matter to Lothlórien, there to listen to what they can hear. 

The wizard’s name is Gandalf, they learn, though most among the elves call him Mithrandir. He is rumored to have come from across the sea – that at least they have heard from his own lips – and to be graced with divine power and blessing. He has often been known to closet himself with those named the wisest of elf-kind – those with other, more powerful realms – but only recently has he taken an interest in the Greenwood, though he too has been known to name it Mirkwood.

Thranduil’s lips thin when she brings him this news. “I mislike the thought that those who have hitherto shown no interest in us might have sent a spy to our realm,” he says to Laerwen and Siril when they are alone. “They have never desired to aid us for our sake, so why come now? What do they hope to learn?”

But over the next years, the wizard surfaces again and again in their realm – always in the east, distressingly close to the enemy’s fortress – Amon Lanc, it was once called; Dol Guldur, it has come to be known. He speaks to their patrols, even befriends them. He seems to have taken a special interest in Legolas – and the young elf responds so well to the attention that Siril sometimes thinks he is the sole reason Thranduil has not ordered drastic measures taken against him.

Well, not the only.

For she knows the forest as well as she knows herself, and she can hear the whispers of the trees – whispers of wakefulness, of stirring from a sleepy gloom. Of hope, where before there was only crushing despair.

Whatever the wizard is doing, there is something wholesome in it. She reports this to Laerwen, to Thranduil, and they remain silent about his presence, and merely wait.

* * *

It is Legolas who finally brings Mithrandir back to the palace – but the wizard follows him, walking with him rather than making any effort to appear escorted. Thranduil’s face pinches at first in displeasure – but the expression melts away as quickly as it came, and they can all see why.

Legolas is more ecstatic than they have ever seen him, dancing on tiptoe rather than walking or even running. “Adar!” he sings, practically coos, and Siril is put in mind of his delight as a tiny child. “Laerwen – Siril – you will not believe it! You will not guess the marvelous thing that has happened!”

The openness with which Legolas speaks is what must finally convince Thranduil that the wizard is a friend – Legolas is never so free around strangers, and his trust has never yet been misplaced. Siril can see the king’s face softening. “What is it?” he asks.

“He is gone!” Legolas practically capers with glee at his own words. “I could not believe it is true, but the forest does not lie. I listened just as you taught me” – he beams at Siril – “and I heard it myself! He is gone!”

“He . . . is gone?” Laerwen puts careful weight on that first word. Legolas does not know the true nature of Sauron – not beyond stories, not beyond what he has seen here. Neither does Siril, and she understands Laerwen’s hesitation – how can one know that who has not known him?

“Yes.” Mithrandir answers. “I think he had grown wise at last to my presence here, and had sensed that I would not give up my poking around until I had discerned the truth of him.” He turns sharp eyes onto the three of them. “I wondered, for a time, if you had. Do you know the true nature of your enemy here?”

Thranduil raises a brow. “It says much of your opinion of me that you think I would not.”

Mithrandir nods once, accepting that. “Legolas speaks the truth. He is gone – fled during the night, it seems, while letting his wraiths mask his absence in their terror. They remain, and I know not where he will go now, but – I do not think he will return immediately, not now he knows we have our eyes on him.” One corner of his mouth quirks up in a wry smile. “I would certainly not decline your thanks.”

“My thanks you shall have,” says Thranduil, equally dry, “as soon as I have verified for myself the truth of your claim.” He turns to Laerwen. “Laerwen, assemble your finest warriors – and take Nimloth and Maeglad, as well. They will know as well as you. Yes, Legolas,” before Legolas can even open his mouth, “I trust your word. But you do not know this foe, not the way we do. And I will not let my guard down on the word of a stranger, especially not when the news seems too good to be true.”

“You ought not let your guard down at all,” says the wizard. “Who can know where he has gone – or when he will return? But all the same, once you have satisfied yourself as to the truth of my words, I would certainly not decline that promised thanks. I have heard fine words indeed on the subject of Mirkwood’s wines.”

“Mirkwood no more, if what you have promised is true.” Thranduil waves to Laerwen. “Go.”

Laerwen goes.

* * *

When she returns, Siril is waiting in their chambers, upright and tense. She has listened as hard as she can to the song of the forest, and she thinks it bears out the wizard’s words – but she cannot be sure; like Thranduil, she will not trust until she hears from Laerwen’s own lips – from the one she trusts more than any other.

Laerwen comes straight to their chambers, still in her leather armor, her hair still braided back tightly enough to repel even dust. She stands in the door, emotions churning across her face so fast that Siril can hardly read them.

“It is true,” she says. “The wraiths remain, the spiders still roam free – but he is gone.” Her face nearly crumples. “He is gone.”

Siril rises as if in a trance, and Laerwen moves to meet her just as slowly, just as dreamlike. Perhaps once upon a time they would have rushed to each other, spun around the room with the force of a celebratory embrace. But that was too many years ago, too many sorrows and responsibilities ago.

Now they only walk slowly to meet in the center of the room – and the kiss, when their lips meet, is just as slow, just as serious. It is a kiss unlike any they have shared in a thousand years: deep, thorough, intense – and when they part, Siril is glad of Laerwen’s hands at her back holding her upright.

“Do you have to – make a report?” she breathes, managing at last to remember practical considerations.

And at last Laerwen smiles, mischievous and dazzling. “Maeglad and Nimloth have promised to do it for me,” she says. “For once in a thousand years, I would not think of my duty before my wife.”

Siril laughs, unable to help herself. “To bed, then, Your Highness,” she says. “And your wife will make you glad of it.”

Their lovemaking is like the kiss that preceded it – slow and thorough and relieved – but not abandoned, not joyous the way it would once have been. Perhaps it is all the years and sorrows that lie between them and their memories; perhaps it is all they have seen and done since their younger years – or perhaps it is merely that they cannot quite bring themselves to believe in their fortune.

Indeed, it seems no one can.

* * *

The forest to the south is thick with whispers.

Siril creeps forward on tentative feet, her head tilted to the side, listening, _listening_. She has slipped into the habit, over the last hundred or so years, of coming here alone – but even after the wizard’s words, even after Thranduil’s own verification, she does not trust that any of the dark presence in their forest has receded enough to let her feel safe. How can it, after all, when the gloom remains? When the spiders still menace the treetops and parties of orcs still dare the occasional raids along the outer settlements? When Thranduil himself has cautioned anyone against making a home outside their fortress in the mountains?

Peace, they caution themselves and one another, but watchfulness.

And it is Siril’s task to watch.

The whispers seem a living being themselves: rather than the usual low hum of sleep and safety or the frenetic discordance of immediate danger, the murmurs and rustles are a pitch below song, emanating from every direction, overlapping into a vast labyrinth of unclear voices. Unwilling to venture forth amidst such uncertainty, Siril pauses where she stands, breathes deep and slow, and lets them settle into sense within her, one layer at a time.

_Danger_, she hears, but always in the tone of a question. _Danger?_ As though the sense of the forest has been so long and thoroughly bewildered that it no longer knows friend from foe, that it would default to the latter. Perhaps this is why Cuindis was so misled, so long ago now – for Siril can sense the process happening again here. The whispers are almost hypnotic – the sounds of a forest swayed again by evil.

Something is here. Something is coming.

She ought not be alone here. Without waiting to sense what it is, Siril turns and runs.

* * *

At her report, Thranduil himself leads the patrol south. It was he who verified the arrival, two thousand years ago now, of their enemy; it is he who ventures forth to seek answers to the same question now.

Siril watches the grim set of his face when he departs with his warriors, and she wonders if he might have a sense different from her own – a sense of listening not so much to what _is_, but what _must be_. He has been expecting this, surely, since the day Laerwen returned with the news that their enemy had fled – he has known all along what the rest of them dared, even for fleeting moments, to ignore: _it cannot be so easy_.

And indeed, when he returns, the nearly-hidden weariness behind his eyes says all he needs before he even opens his mouth.

They were all fools, perhaps, to dare to hope that such a nickname as _Mirkwood_ would be so easy to shed.


	36. Part V, Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter - and the upcoming bit - is possibly the meanest/worst part of this whole story, and all I can say is that I'm sorry.

“I hope I will be back early this evening,” says Laerwen, shrugging her cloak on over her tunic and breeches. She never wears her leather armor on days like today, but still something in Siril always cringes to see her without it. Not because she doubts Laerwen’s skill, but because – well. Their foes draw only closer these days, and Siril would know it better than anyone.

“Today is your father’s day?” Siril knows the answer already, but there is something comforting in the easy routine of the chatter – that as long as she hears Laerwen’s voice, she knows they are both safe and together.

Laerwen smiles at her, for surely she understands. “He will lead the evening patrol, yes,” she says. “I have only a brief sweep of the eastern borders this morning, and then a meeting before he departs. I ought to be back by the early afternoon.”

“As should I.” Today is Siril’s own day to check her traps and informants, to ensure that the outposts where information about the forest and the location of their enemies yet remain intact. It rarely takes her long; none is more than a few miles from their mountain fortress. She sweeps her own cloak over her shoulders and leans against the wall beside their door. “I have heard nothing amiss yet, so I imagine my own foray will be swift.”

“And I trust your senses.” Laerwen leans in to cup her face with one hand, rests her forehead against Siril’s own just for a minute. “Still – be watchful.”

“I always am.” Siril tilts her head up for a kiss – shallow but lingering. “And you.”

“Of course.” Laerwen leans down for one more clinging kiss, the final stage in their routine on days like today. There is a feel to these kisses – casual and hardly scarce, but still precious: something to savor, a comforting certainty in these days of darkness. But they have exchanged enough of them, now, that another sensation accompanies them: the sluggish reluctance of parting, the knowledge that they may delay no further before they go their separate ways for now.

“Until this afternoon,” Laerwen murmurs when they draw apart, and then she opens the door, and they turn in opposite directions.

* * *

Something is not right.

The sensation does not strike Siril until she has reached her second post, but when it does it descends upon her all at once. She freezes where she stands, half-hidden by the base of the thick, gnarled oak that is one of her most reliable informants. She lays her hand on its trunk to feel the comforting pulse of life and song – but that song has changed. This tree is old enough that its song does not alter easily, but the low pleasant thrum of greeting has changed, heavy pulses running through the tone like an instrument out of tune – waves of falseness that clash with the tone. A warning.

A warning – but this close to their halls? Only a few miles from the mountains? And still during daylight hours?

It is dark enough that the creatures could attack anytime they desired, it is true, but – the sparse light filtering through the trees is enough to deter them; the mere knowledge of the sun above, and the knowledge that the elves have claimed this time as their own. But now –

Siril shrinks against the base of the tree and listens, pushes her senses past the song of her surroundings to listen into the distance. The rustling of leaves – far away, but approaching rapidly – and the click-scuttling that can only mean one thing, one creature.

Here? Here, now, so close to home?

But it is undeniable, and the longer she spends doubting the truth of her senses, the less time she will have to escape. She turns her head in every direction – where is it safest, where can she run? – but no sooner has she chosen a direction than she hears the scuttling there as well, the shifting of trees beneath a hideous wrong-shaped bulk –

There? – no – nowhere to run, nowhere is safe, and for a moment she can only freeze, surrounded by foes she cannot yet see, foes who have somehow maneuvered her into a trap as deadly as the one Cuindis faced, so long ago – but this time her forest did not conspire against her. She must believe that, even as the warning tones clang within her mind and in the sentinel trees around her, even as she twitches in one direction after the other, only to be thwarted by the scuttling of many legs – and – and –

And they are too close. The trees sway against the bulk of their bodies; they are not in view yet, but they will be. It is too late to run.

Siril’s hands tremble as she unsheathes her sword.

The weapon feels wrong in her grip, for all Laerwen’s coaching on proper stance, for all that she has even successfully wielded it a few times in defense. It is not natural to her, it is not how she was meant to be, and she has never had to use it alone.

Panic rises in her, cold in her belly, bile burning at the back of her throat. She squeezes the sword too tight in both her hands; the branches rustle aside at last and they come into view: black and bulging, the few weak rays of sunlight gleaming off their clusters of eyes – a menace descending upon her, one she cannot hope to fight.

There is no last, desperate surge of strength like those in legend, no heroic dash forward, not even a boost of speed to flee. Her sword rebounds off the carapace of the first as it descends upon her, and the suddenness of the motion tears it from her hands, leaving her defenseless and alone.

She does not even have time to scream.

* * *

Something is not right.

Laerwen stands in the doorway of her chambers, newly returned from a meeting with her father and Maeglad and Nimloth, and knows immediately that Siril is not here.

And then she can only shake her head at herself. What that must say of her, of the rigidity of their routine! So Siril is not present in their rooms when Laerwen expected it. It is hardly a matter for great concern. Siril has her own duties, after all, and she can look after herself.

But still something feels wrong, and Laerwen rubs irritably at the chill prickling over her upper arms and wraps her cloak back around herself again for comfort.

She hopes she cannot be blamed too harshly for her concern. She would not have worried so in those lovely, too-brief years of rest – those years when the wraiths ventured forth from their fortress only a few times a year, when with only spiders and orcs to fight the elves’ defenses were stronger than ever. But those days are gone – gone with not even a trace remaining of that brief, beautiful peace.

The light was filtering in through the west windows already when Laerwen entered; now it brightens, turns gold, then darkens into orange. She rises. Siril might have delayed in the forest, but she knows to be back before sunset. No elf ought to wander alone in the night, and Siril knows that better than most.

Something is not right, and Laerwen means to find out what it is.

She does not take her own advice as she sweeps alone down the halls, her cloak billowing behind her in the wind generated by her own haste. But she will not be out for long; she will find Siril, wherever she might be, whatever might have gone wrong.

No, nothing has gone wrong! Surely nothing has gone wrong! Siril meant to check her defenses, the snares and thornbushes she has so meticulously grown and cultivated over the last thousand years, and then to listen to the whispers of the trees and the wind to see if aught has gone amiss – well, aught beyond the usual. But she would stay out in full daylight, and she would not stray far from the patrols. Surely she merely lost track of time in conversation with some lovely new sapling or chattering stream. Surely she is on her way back right now, and Laerwen will meet her halfway, and Siril will laugh at her worry.

But her belly churns with ice even as she thinks these things, and she is not in the practice of ignoring her instincts.

She moves faster.

She traces the path Siril usually follows on her solitary excursions between her sentinel trees. Their kingdom extends beyond the boundaries of where they live, but they have drawn patrol lines closer and closer in as their Enemy increases his nightmarish onslaught, and Siril’s outposts are closer still. All the same, Laerwen moves faster as it grows dark and cold around her and still she does not meet her wife.

Perhaps she missed her? Perhaps Siril has now returned to their chambers and is wondering where Laerwen has gone? Perhaps she ought to turn – _wait_.

A broken branch, just ahead of her own perch in the treetops. A whole series of them, as if to let something with a great bulk pass through.

There is only one kind of creature with such size that ventures through the treetops. And only one reason it would need to break branches – if there were a struggle.

Laerwen breathes clouds of ice into her chest. She touches her sword at her side, then her bow at her back – both weapons she can use in an instant, if provoked.

She creeps forward.

More broken branches, for a few trees onward, and then they stop. The spider must have subdued its prey enough that it could resume its grotesque grace. But still there are traces – a stray twig here, a patch of sticky webbing there.

Bile wells in Laerwen’s throat, but she swallows it down and continues – cautious, slow.

And then she sees it. Sagging from a tree just ahead of her, wrapped in repulsive layers of webbing, the mockery of a protective swaddling, she sees it.

For a moment she cannot make sense of the image – of the shrouded figure dangling like a large insect from a spider’s hideous trap, too weak even to moan. That cannot be her wife hanging there, so still; it cannot –

But the truth will not be held back, for all that Laerwen would like to shroud her own mind in thicker layers of web to hide it; it rushes in, much as she cannot bear to believe – cannot bear to see –

Laerwen _screams_, the noise ripping through her throat as though she is the one wounded, wilder than any sound she made during any battle at the gates of Mordor. She hears the echoes fragment off the trees, some cushioned deeper in the forest, some bouncing back, but it matters not at all; she is moving.

She knows not where the spiders have gone; surely they will not have ventured too far from their prize, but she cares not – indeed, _let_ them come. One swipe from her sword frees the bundle from the tree; there is no time to unwind Siril from her grotesque cocoon; Laerwen heaves the whole bundle onto her back and runs.

Siril is not light, but desperation drives Laerwen on; she cannot take to the trees thus burdened so she runs over the ground instead, but hardly feels it beneath her feet – the burn in her muscles is only motive to run faster, to run as she has never run before.

“Your Highness!” She encounters the first guard just a few furlongs outside the entrance to the mountains, but does not stop to exchange greetings. “We heard a cry” – He catches sight of her burden, and his words stop.

“Fetch a healer,” she snaps. She does not recognize her own voice. “_Now_.”

* * *

In the infirmary, Laerwen sits with knees clamped together as though trying to hold a staff perfectly upright between them. Her hands are tight fists in her lap, folds of her tunic caught between her knuckles, but since she has been forbidden to draw any nearer, she has no choice but to keep them tightly clenched.

Elbereth, but she hates this infirmary within the mountain. She has been here too often – it has been _needed _too often – but still she is not used to it; still she cannot bear to be here. The stone is too close, the caverns too deep – they were never so far below the stone long ago, in her younger days, and the air is too warm with the bustling motions of the healers around her; too thick with the low buzz of their voices, blending into a murmur whose individual sounds Laerwen can hardly make out; too heavy with the scent of mingled herbs and blood—

Siril's blood.

Her stomach turns, but still she does not move, her teeth locked together.

Healers rush back and forth, fetching herbs and bandages; Laerwen sits. She cannot relax enough for reverie, but she sinks into a stupor of fear and grief and heart-deep exhaustion, watching without seeing, listening without hearing – waiting, waiting.

When she surfaces again, she is not alone.

She does not even startle; since her mother’s departure there is only one pair of feet silent enough to have crept up on her without her notice, dozing or no. Legolas sits beside her, close enough that she feels the warmth radiating from his skin, the phantom brush of their shoulders; far enough away to give her space, should she wish it.

She extracts her arm from between them and wraps it around his shoulders. He curls into her, tucking his feet up beneath him and resting his head against her shoulder, and she strokes his hair idly and wonders if she has ever felt so grateful for another person.

But even the love and gratitude swelling in her heart cannot last for long; she remembers her other loves, takes in again the sight of Siril lying motionless in a bed, the buzz of the healers’ voices—and a pang of bitter fear stabs through the momentary bubble of hope and leaves her nearly breathless with despair.

* * *

Night blooms into morning, the sunrise glows through the wide east windows of the infirmary, and Legolas relaxes into reverie against Laerwen’s shoulder. She adjusts her left arm to hold him more securely against her; her right hand rests loosely in her lap. Siril twitches in the bed, her head rolling back and forth across the pillow in an attempt at the thrashing for which she lacks the strength, her breath shoving quiet moans between parted lips. Hers is the only voice in the room; even the healer left to watch her has sunk into reverie of his own in the corner.

Legolas’s pulse beats against Laerwen’s upper arm: just a bit too fast to give credence to the smoothness of his face in dream, but that is normal. What is not is that his heartbeat is not the fastest in the room; Siril’s own races and trips like a deer running with a wounded leg. Laerwen can only listen and hope it will outrun the predator in pursuit.

She counts the uneven rhythm of the beats: _onetwo, three, four, f-f-fivesixseven_, breathing in each time the irregular flutter settles.

Some small infinity of heartbeats later, Siril’s motion changes. The pained tossing slows; her head stills on the pillow; her chest rises. The next noise that emerges from her lips is a whimper, long and drawn-out.

Laerwen moves slowly; as though in a dream of her own, she shifts Legolas very gently off her shoulder to ease him flat onto the bench. His eyes clear for just a moment, but she shakes her head at him – _no, no need to rise_ – and he drifts away again.

Laerwen rises and tiptoes toward the bed.

Siril’s eyes are glazed still, but with pain and fever rather than sleep. She moans again, fresh tears tracking through the grime on her cheeks.

“Siril?” Laerwen says softly. Only once she moves it does she realize how tightly her jaw has been clenched; it aches in the unbending. She can feel the heat radiating from Siril’s skin, but does not dare touch her, for fear she might cause her more pain.

Siril’s lips open and close a few times, trying to find their way around words. “Laen?”

“Do not speak, if it hurts you,” Laerwen whispers. “I am here.”

“Hurts,” manages Siril.

“I know.” Laerwen’s eyes sting; she squeezes them shut until the metal ball has receded from the back of her throat. “I know, my love; I am sorry.”

“Hh,” Siril says, enough voice emerging with her breath that Laerwen knows she is trying to speak. “Hah,”

She twitches her right hand. Laerwen has loved Siril long enough to understand more complicated requests than this, but she hesitates. “Are you sure I will not hurt you?”

Siril twitches her hand again. She does not try for words this time, but the plea in her eyes speaks eloquently enough.

Laerwen reaches down and enfolds Siril’s hand in her own.

They go quiet again, but Siril does not drift off. Laerwen ought to speak to her, to divert her from her pain or promise an end to it, but she cannot bear to promise even to herself something that might be a falsehood. 

“It is not fair,” she says, at last, quietly.

It is the plea of a child, and Laerwen has not been a child in thousands of years, but the words seem to come from some deep place inside of her that has not been forced to forgo petulance. Some deep place that dared to believe she might be able to keep this one good thing – this one best thing.

Another tear trickles down Siril’s cheek. “No,” she agrees, and that word comes out clear and strong.

In the corner, Ecthoron stirs and straightens. “Your Highness,” he says. “Is she awake?”

Laerwen nods, shifting to the side as he approaches to give him room but keeping her hold on Siril’s hand. This place might be the domain of the healers, but Siril’s requests will always come first.

Ecthoron kneels beside Siril’s bed – lays his hand first over her heart, his lips tightening at the irregular beat – it has sped up since she woke, as though the layer of unconsciousness was protecting her from some of the pain. Then he lifts aside the light sheet over her body, and Laerwen swallows hard.

The wounds look – if possible – even worse than before: wide gashes oozing a slow pulse of blood and something bubbling and black mixed in that must be the venom Siril’s body is struggling to purge. Ecthoron takes up a cloth without a word and soaks it in a bowl of some sharp-smelling liquid.

When he touches the cloth to her abdomen, Siril cries out, her back arching and her heels digging into the bed; Laerwen hurries to catch her other hand, as though that will somehow mitigate the agony that she can practically feel reverberating in her spirit. Behind them, Legolas sits up straight on the bench, but Laerwen cannot spare him a glance.

Siril’s grip tightens on Laerwen’s hands until they ache from the pressure, and Laerwen grips them back firmly but gently. “Hold on,” she urges Siril, “yes, hold on to me, it will be over soon.” Ecthoron works quickly, drawing the cloth over Siril’s wounds in swift, precise strokes as Siril writhes beneath him, tears leaking again from her eyes. Laerwen kisses her hands and her sweat-shining forehead, perhaps pretending that somehow enough affection will heal her.

Ecthoron stands up and washes his hands in the basin in the corner, then attends to something in a mortar and pestle. “Here,” he says, bustling back around Laerwen with a cup. “Lift her head and help her drink.”

“No,” moans Siril.

“It is for the pain, Your Highness,” Ecthoron assures her. “It will ease your suffering a bit.”

“Please,” Laerwen adds softly, and Siril whimpers in acquiescence. She allows Laerwen to release one of her hands and tilt her head up so that Ecthoron can pour the liquid down her throat. The swallows sound harsh and painful, but she does not resist.

“It will take a few moments to work, but the pain should ease enough that you can think,” Ecthoron says. He promises no more, and Laerwen can see that Siril notices it well by the way her eyes flash. “The bleeding has slowed, so I will bandage your wounds again.”

“No stitches?” asks Laerwen. Those gashes look too large for bandages –

Ecthoron shakes his head. “We tried them already. The poison merely dissolves them as though they were never there.”

_The poison._ The poison that still, it seems, lingers in Siril’s wound.

Ecthoron retreats to his corner, and Legolas stands at last and approaches Siril’s bed on silent feet. “Second-sister,” he says, giving her a shaky half-smile. “I am sorry to see you here.”

“_Honeg tithen_,” she croaks. “Thank you.”

Legolas does not ask for what. He merely sidles up to Laerwen and puts his arms around her waist; the warm weight of him against her side is like pressure on an open wound, and she feels she will not bleed out as long as he stays by her. Perhaps this is what Siril is thanking him for – even in agony, she still thinks of Laerwen first.

Laerwen blinks hard against tears and squeezes Siril’s hands. _It will be fine_, she wishes she could say, but she dares not. Not since she was barely two hundred has she been in the business of self-delusion. She has no false comfort to offer; only her presence, and the fervent prayers that stream through her thoughts like ribbons in the wind – or, like one ribbon only: _pleasepleaseplease . . ._

After some time, Legolas removes himself silently from Laerwen’s side, touches her shoulder, and slips out of the infirmary. Only moments after his departure, the door opens again, and Laerwen’s father enters, his face drawn.

Ecthoron rises from the corner, but Thranduil waves him down and turns to Laerwen. His mouth tightens when his gaze comes to rest on her face, which must tell him everything he needs to know, and he comes to stand beside her.

He does not touch her; he has become less demonstrative over the years rather than more, as though instead of adjusting to his wife’s distance he has merely internalized it. But he does incline his head, and he stands close enough that she can feel the heat of his shoulder beside hers.

“I am sorry,” he murmurs.

If Laerwen’s mother were here, she would have embraced Laerwen tightly now, would have held her close and not let go. She would have whispered in Laerwen’s ear that there was still hope, that they would not give up while it yet remained – and that even if there were not, the family would still be by her side. Thranduil does none of that, and Laerwen can feel the aching absence of her mother in all that he does not give – and in the telling absence of any false hope.

But he is there, and that in itself is worth something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Honeg tithen:_ little brother


	37. Part V, Chapter 3

Agony.

That is all she knows, the sole fiber that binds her world together. Lines of fire drawn across her belly, sending liquid heat pulsing through her core; red washes before her eyelids and white pools in her chest; pain, pain, pain.

Sometimes that is all there is: pain as a haze and nothing more, an endless lake holding her afloat – or is she beneath the surface? she cannot tell – she loses all sense of time and self within the suspension of the waters. It is not so bad in those moments, for she forgets how to feel anything but the agony and there is no contrast to torment her.

Other times she wakes, and only then does she know that she has been asleep – the pain claws new lines of fire across her abdomen; she gasps into consciousness and new spikes of pain scream their way through her body. Then the pain is no haze all around her but something defined and knowable, and she remembers what time is and feels her heart pound at the thought that all her eternity might be spent in only this.

Those times are worse, but also better, because she can feel the pressure of another hand in hers; can make out through the blur of her tears a figure gazing down at her. She does not always remember who this figure is, but she knows without memory that it is someone beloved, someone safe.

The best times are when her head is lifted and a cup of something cool is poured down her throat; the movement makes her body scream, but then the liquid rushes down into her like ice against the fire – not enough to put it out, but numbing her body, pushing back the flames enough that she can remember she is not being devoured.

Not anymore, anyway.

“Laerwen,” she whispers after the latest dose of the medication. Her voice rasps out of her throat in a croak that would embarrass a toad. But Laerwen folds her hand tighter between her own two, looks down at her with tired eyes.

“My lady.”

“How long?” Siril manages.

Laerwen’s finger comes to her forehead to push a strand of hair back behind her ear. “Three days,” she says softly.

Siril cannot stifle her groan at those words. Three days! Three days already she has been sunk in this daze of pain – and three days only, when it has felt like that many lifetimes.

A figure appears at Laerwen’s shoulder; Siril has to blink a few times before the face comes into focus – she does not know it as she does Laerwen’s, better than her own. Ecthoron. The healer.

“Your Highness,” he says. “Now you are awake, there are some things we all must discuss.”

Laerwen’s lips firm. She turns around and waves a dismissive hand behind her, and Siril can only assume Legolas must have been sitting vigil with her, that he must have departed. Still Laerwen is trying to protect him – or perhaps merely does not wish him to hear the conversation they must have.

“Tell me,” Siril croaks. The grim set of Ecthoron’s face is enough to tell her that it will not be a pleasant discussion.

He bites his lip, shuffles from foot to foot. On a hunch, Siril squeezes Laerwen’s hand, and Ecthoron relaxes as soon as her wife looks down. She must have been staring at him as though daring him to give them ill news. Perhaps she did not even know she was doing it – Siril wonders, sometimes, if Laerwen knows the effect she has on people.

“I know not how to say this,” he begins, and Siril closes her eyes against a hot throbbing spasm of pain.

“Please,” she says through her teeth. “Please just say it. Do not prolong this any more than you must.”

Ecthoron takes a deep breath, and lets it out in a rush of words. “We cannot heal you.”

Perhaps she should be shocked, unbelieving – but Siril feels the fire racing from her belly through her blood, and she has no room for disbelief. Indeed, she would have been more surprised, she thinks, had he said the opposite.

He continues speaking, fear and regret making his words tumble out of his mouth in haste. “We have not attempted to treat wounds of this magnitude before – the other bites were either meant to paralyze or to kill. Those who have been injured to this extent typically either died or gave up their spirits before we could bring them aid, and we did not know – we can keep you alive, but we cannot purge the venom from your blood. The pain you feel now will never leave you.” He swallows, his eyes darting back and forth. “All our healers have consulted, and we agree that you have only two choices. If you stay here, we can continue muting your pain with these herbs – but that will not ease your discomfort any more than it does now. And the herbs are not infinite; one day there will no longer be enough. Otherwise” – He breaks off and does not finish.

It matters not. Siril knows what he would say.

“Valinor,” she rasps.

“Yes.” Ecthoron looks up at Laerwen once more, the same look of terrified apology on his face. “I am sorry. I will leave you now, so you may consider it.”

He bows to them and practically flees the infirmary. No doubt the next person to come in here will be a different healer entirely.

Left alone, they sit there in silence – but only for a moment. They ought to confer – but in truth there is no decision to be made.

“Laerwen,” Siril says. She hates herself. She will never hate herself more for anything than for this.

Laerwen’s eyes gleam with tears. “I know,” she says.

“Laerwen,” Siril repeats anyway, as though saying her name will soften it somehow, make this less painful. As though she is not slashing the same wounds across Laerwen’s soul that were inflicted on her own body, as though she is not sentencing her love to the exact agony that has just been promised her. “Laerwen, I cannot live like this.”

Laerwen brings Siril’s hand to her lips. The motion ignites a dull throbbing pulse of fire. “I know,” she says again.

“_Dannan am ochin nin_,” Siril whispers, “or I would, could I rise to do so, but I” –

“No,” Laerwen whispers. “Do not beg my forgiveness, I implore you. It may be that you could force yourself to live thus for my sake; it may be that you could endure this torment, but – for how long? A year? A _yén_?” Siril cringes; she can hardly imagine enduring it for another second, and yet she continues to live as each one passes on. “What life would that be for you? If Valinor can heal your wounds, then you _must_ sail.”

She speaks too quickly, the words tumbling from her mouth with the ease of long practice – Siril blinks up at Laerwen and realizes that her wife is not surprised.

She remembers a thousand years ago, when Legolas was first born, when Cuindis too was consigned to the only healing left to her. She remembers watching Thranduil bid his wife farewell; remembers the gratitude that she was left to Laerwen, and Laerwen to her.

“I am sorry,” she says again.

Laerwen’s lips ghost over her fingers again, sending cold shivers to clash with the liquid flame. “Never,” she whispers.

* * *

They make the plans quickly, in hushed whispers. Siril will be transported on a litter as far as the western boundaries of the realm, then hoisted onto a horse along with Lim, their most skilled rider. Ze will take her as quickly as ze dares to Imladris. Perhaps Lord Elrond may have some suggestion for how to heal her – but if he does not, they will beg that she join the next company of elves heading west to the Havens.

There are always elves leaving Rivendell to sail, after all. It is not the way it is here.

Laerwen – and Legolas, he insists – will accompany her out of the realm, to the boundary of the forest itself, but they dare not go farther. It is too long a journey to send both of the king’s children, not when they are still needed here – not when they know not how long Siril will have to stay in Rivendell before she can take the westward journey that is her only hope now.

Laerwen packs her a bag according to her whispered requests. Her hairpin, the gown she wore on their wedding, two of her finest braided tapestries, all of the letters Laerwen has sent her throughout their occasional separations over the years. A few other trinkets. Their book of poems.

Ecthoron packs a supply of the pain-relieving herbs into the saddlebags with their rations. He shrugs when Laerwen asks how long they will last, saying only, “They are all we have left.”

Siril would protest, could she hear. As a princess and caretaker of the realm, Laerwen ought to protest in her stead.

She does not. She only nods and helps him tuck them away.

* * *

Consciousness is easier now. No less painful, but she has learned how – if not to push the pain back – to think around it, to work her mind in new paths that wind and wander before they reach their point, but that at least allow her to do things like – well, like think. Speak. Listen to the plans for her transfer to Valinor.

Remember what she is leaving behind.

An extra-strong dose of pain medicine courses through her blood; heavy pads have been bound to her wounds for the ordeal of travel, and she is propped on pillows in her litter, so that she can be at least upright when she says her goodbyes.

A small crowd, to her surprise, has come to wish her well. People she has met over the years – families she has aided in domestic disputes, or people whose homes she helped heal when the Shadow threatened to make them wither and die. She recognizes all of them, and though she can barely manage a nod and a few words for each of them, their thanks and heartfelt wishes bring tears to her eyes – for once, tears of more than just pain.

Laerwen stays beside her all the while, one hand gently wrapped around hers. She says nothing, but manages a tiny smile of her own.

Siril has meant something to this realm, she realizes. She has never allowed herself to realize it before – always she has thought of herself as merely Cuindis’s apprentice or Laerwen’s support – but this kingdom has always wanted more than merely war. They respect and love their military leaders, they defer to Thranduil and Laerwen – but Siril too is _important_ to them. Beloved, for all that she never allowed herself to realize it before.

The crowd is sedate, with respect to the occasion: each person filing up to her, to say a few words of thanks or kiss her free hand, and then fading back into the mass. They trickle away as the morning goes on – and at last only one is left. One Siril has not seen in many years.

“Hallassel?” she croaks.

Her sister creeps closer on tentative feet, nothing present in her face or voice of the mockery that once accompanied every word. “Hello, Siril.”

Standing on Siril’s other side, Celair tenses. Hallassel nods to hir in turn. “Celair. If you would tolerate my presence for but a moment.”

“Why?” manages Siril.

“You are my sister,” says Hallassel simply. “However poorly I have acted it all these years. I would not have you depart unfarewelled – if you will accept my well-wishes.”

It is too late for this! They ought to talk – truly talk, as they never have in their lives; they ought to weep in one another’s arms and beg forgiveness, to truly air old wounds and let them heal, to see if they might be able to build understanding, if never quite friendship. But the very thought of that makes Siril’s head spin and her body ache – she has not the time; she must go.

“Thank you,” she says instead. “I am glad you at least came to say farewell.”

Hallassel does not touch her, but merely bows slightly, her eyes sad. “I am sorry,” she whispers. “Your Highness.”

And she melts away with the last remnants of Siril’s well-wishers and farewellers, and she is left alone only with her family.

Such a small family it is, now, compared to what it once was – but such a beloved one. Laerwen and Legolas she must not yet bid goodbye, for they will accompany her – but Thranduil. But Celair.

They both stand there for long moments, and Thranduil tips his head at last to Celair and moves forward first.

“Farewell, my daughter,” he says to her. Once upon a time she thought his face like to Laerwen’s, but it has been so long that she can see how different they are. The angle of his jaw is harder than hers, the point of his chin sharper, his nose shorter and more delicate. And his eyes never soften anymore, not the way hers still do – but they are gentler now than Siril has seen them in a thousand years or longer, since before Cuindis sailed. He takes her face between his hands in a rare display of affection and bestows a slow, deliberate kiss to her brow. “Thank you for all you have done for my family. You will forever hold a place of the highest honor in our hearts.”

“It is I who ought to thank you, second-father,” she manages. “My place in your family will ever be my most treasured memory from this world.”

He sighs and withdraws from her. “I would you did not have to leave us so soon,” he murmurs. “The realm will be a darker place without you. But to you I wish healing and peace.”

“And I wish the same to you,” she says. “Until we see one another again.”

His eyes harden at that, shields of blankness sliding back over his expression. He nods and steps back at last, allowing Celair to approach.

Ze gives her a hug, slow and gentle, careful not to jostle her, and she closes her eyes and leans her head against hir shoulder. “I love you, Celair,” she whispers. “Thank you for staying by me all these years.”

“You are my family,” ze says. “The best of it. Thank you for allowing me into your life.”

“Thank you for joining me in it.” She takes a deep breath. “Look after these two, will you?” She gestures at Laerwen and Legolas, trying to muster a bit of humor, but her seriousness must be clear in her voice. “They will need it.”

“Of course,” Celair murmurs. “Who knows what trouble they would find themselves in without someone sensible around?”

Laerwen manages a tiny smile back at hir, but Legolas’s lip quivers, and Siril wishes she could put an arm around him. Laerwen does that instead, with the hand not still holding Siril’s, and Siril finds some comfort in the sight – in the thought that, in her absence, Laerwen will not be able to retreat from the world. That she will yet have someone to remind her of hope – that she will be able, somehow and somewhat, to keep that softness she fears so much to lose.

“I think it is time for us to depart,” Laerwen says at last, indicating the few guards who will accompany them, who have been waiting patiently for them to finish their goodbyes. “Loath as I am to admit it.”

“Very well,” Celair says quietly, and gives Siril a last kiss on the cheek. “Farewell, sister.”

“Farewell,” she echoes.

Laerwen moves quickly, easing away the cushions that propped Siril up until she can lie back, strapping her more firmly to her litter. Holding a cup to her lips containing an herbal concoction meant to send her to sleep, so that the journey out of the woods will be as bearable as possible to her.

Obediently, Siril drinks.

And with one last look at the forest around her – one last look at her home – she sinks back away into the hazy anguish of unconsciousness.

* * *

The journey to the edge of the woods is too long and too short at the same time.

Too long, because any journey would be too long. Asleep or awake, however gentle the bearers of her litter, Siril feels every jolt and uneven step, the jostle sending fresh jolts of agony through her body, like waves of spikes.

Too short, because every time she moans, Laerwen is there to take her hand or wipe sweat from her forehead, to murmur soothing words, and she knows that this is the last time she will spend with her wife for – for who knows how many years? A hundred to a thousand to infinity, and Siril is not prepared for the parting.

She does not know how long they walk. It must be days; they could not reach the border in any less, but she has no sense of how much time passes, her own consciousness marked in intervals between roots in the path and unexpected turns. But at last – too soon, and yet not soon enough – they are there. At the place where they must part.

She will be transferred from her litter and settled before Lim on the horse, where ze might hold her fast, with the other two guards surrounding them to ensure that she does not fall but that they move with all haste. But before that happens, the guards back away respectfully to give her space with the siblings.

Space – to say her final goodbyes.

Legolas kneels beside her first, his eyes wide and sorrowful. Siril wonders how much he remembers of his mother’s departure; on that day, he had a similar expression of wordless wisdom, as though understanding that all was about to change forever. But not the sadness, though – that is new, is something from which his sister has striven for so long to protect him. Siril cannot help but regret that she is its cause now, that she has played such a part in dimming Legolas’s bright spirit with sorrow.

“I am sorry to leave you,” she whispers.

“You have no other choice.” Legolas takes one of her hands into his own, very gently, as though afraid he will break her. “Be not sorry to leave; rather be glad of all the joy you have brought to my life.” He presses her hand to his cheek. “I am better for having known you, second-sister. Thank you for all you have taught me.”

“It is I who have learned the best lessons from you,” she croaks. “Do not lose your joy, Legolas. You will be the best of all of us, I know.”

He blinks hard, and his tears drip onto her hand even as she forces a smile. “And look after your sister.”

“I will do my utmost,” Legolas promises, “if she will allow me.”

He kisses her hand and then retreats into the trees, enough distance away that Laerwen and Siril are at last alone.

They stare at one another for some time, the silence expanding to dizzy breadth between them. Laerwen’s eyes are dry, but her lips are white.

“It does not feel real,” she whispers at last. “Do I look upon your face for the last time? How can this be?”

“Not the last,” says Siril. Tears sting at her eyes, the pain in her spirit enough, at last, to make her bodily agony feel as nothing. She almost feels she could endure it, if only she could stay – but no. She knows she cannot. “Not the last, Laerwen. Tell me it is not.”

“How can I promise that?” Laerwen whispers. “How, when I know not” –

“Promise anyway,” says Siril, the words coming fiercely from somewhere deep within her. “I know you have a life here; I know you have duties and family that need you. I would not wish your absence on anyone in the forest; you are the spine of this kingdom, my love. But” – She blinks furiously against more tears. Laerwen’s eyes are still dry; Siril cannot think, now, of the last time she saw her wife weep. It must have been when Legolas was still young, when they still dared to believe that the oppressive darkness might yet one day be ended. “But do not go on merely because it is what you have always done. Live in my absence, _live_ for the kingdom and your father and Legolas and those who love you – but remember that there are others who love you far away, in the lands beyond the sea. And if the time comes that you should ever have to face this choice” – She gestures weakly at her own sweat-soaked, disheveled figure, at the bandages still slowly leaking venom through her travel clothing – “choose as I have done. Come sail to me. Do not let yourself fade in loneliness simply because you have forgotten there is another way to live.”

Laerwen takes a long, shaky breath. “Why does it frighten me so much to agree to that?” she whispers. “And how shall I – oh, Siril, who will ever let me admit my fear now?”

Siril can say nothing. She merely lifts her arms, as best she can, and Laerwen crawls forward to enfold her in the most excruciatingly gentle embrace.

“Would this were not all we could share,” she whispers in Siril’s ear. “Would that I could hold you so tight against me that I forget where I leave off and you begin, that you could push me back into the leaves until I no longer remember my own name – that I could leave with one last taste of you!”

And Siril wishes it, too – wishes it with a futile desperation that allows her to do nothing more than lean into the embrace and press her lips to Laerwen’s neck.

“It will happen again,” is all she can say. “It will, Laerwen. _Promise_.”

And at long last, Laerwen sighs against her and draws back to look into her eyes.

“I promise,” she says. Her eyes are sunlight gleaming off the edge of a blade: sharp and painful and honest. She rests a hand against Siril’s cheek and leans forward to kiss her softly on the lips. “I cannot say when, or how, or why, but – I will come to you one day, Siril. We will see one another again.”

“Thank you,” Siril whispers, and a fresh wave of tears spills from her eyes. Laerwen kisses them away from her cheekbones, her lips the slightest whisper of butterfly wings. “Thank you, _melethril_.”

They stay like that for some time, but at last the trees rustle as their companions come forward again. They have delayed for long enough – it is time.

“I love you,” Laerwen says at last, tracing her finger along the shape of Siril’s face as though to memorize it.

“And I love you.” She knows Laerwen will never forget her, knows that she herself will never lose these memories, but she finds herself doing the same thing: drinking in the sight of Laerwen’s face, the sound of her voice – pretending that this moment of memory will be enough to sustain her for whatever small infinity she must wait until they see one another again. “Thank you for being my wife, Laerwen. It has been the greatest honor of my life.”

“The honor is all mine.”

Legolas comes to stand beside Laerwen, reaching a hand down to brush her shoulder. It is impossible for them to part, but somehow they manage it – Laerwen leans forward for a last kiss, a last squeeze of Siril’s hand, and then she stands and draws back, and lets the guards unstrap Siril from her litter, drape her over the horse. Her wounds cry out as though torn open anew, but worse than that is the shredding pain in her heart as her head is turned away from Laerwen, and her family is lost to her sight.

“Farewell,” they whisper behind her, too solemn to cry out.

She can muster no words in response.

And then Lim urges the horse on, and Siril begins the next stage of her excruciating journey to what she can only hope will be her salvation.

Alone.


	38. Part V, Chapter 4

On the night Laerwen and Legolas return to their home, she makes no effort to go to bed.

All day she has felt the evening looming ahead of her, has avoided their – _her_ chambers in an effort not to see them waiting for her: the armchair by the window where Siril would so often sit with her weaving; the too-large bed she is still, somehow, expected to occupy alone –

It has only been a few days; they have been separated for longer than this before, but it did not feel the same then; there was not the _certainty_ of absence. She wonders if this is how Siril felt when she was away, so long ago – alone in the long, aching nights, consumed with memory of their time together, with wondering when they would see one another again – but no, it is not the same. For Siril would have lived with fear, those nights: fear of her death, the uncertainty of not knowing, and Laerwen –

For her, it is certain already. The only thing she does not know is how long the absence will endure. How long she will endure it.

If tonight is any indication, not very long at all.

She retreats at last to her chambers in the evening, but she does not turn back the bed. The covers will still smell of Siril, she knows, and she dares not disturb them, for fear the scent will fade too soon – or for fear she will smell it now and lose herself. She paces instead, around the room, until she cannot bear it any longer.

It is the deepest, darkest part of night; it seems this night there will be no visitations from their unwelcome guests, but Laerwen needs no wraiths now to disturb her nonexistent peace. What she needs is motion, is purpose – is something to fight.

Ordinarily, for such a mission, she would take a bow, at least for backup should she be surrounded by too many for her sword alone. She has not her brother's prodigious talent, but she is a good enough mark that it would be safer, certainly. But tonight . . . Tonight she cannot fight from a distance. Tonight she must meet her foes up close.

She brings her sword and the dagger that she always keeps strapped to her calf. It was a gift from Siril – she remembers the day Siril gave it to her, remembers teasing her wife about her newfound knowledge of weaponry until she confessed that Legolas helped her commission it. Never again will she let herself be caught without it.

It is easy to slip out of the palace – the guard is lax towards those on the inside, their attention focused on the threat outside. And anyway, they are too few – always too few. She clenches her teeth so hard pain shoots up through the back of her head. They could not have known – they could not have been prepared for –

Something rustles behind her, and she whirls, blade singing free of its sheath – yet even before she has completed her circle, already she is calm again. She is too close to the palace still for it to be an enemy, and of her people there is only one who has consistently been able to take her by surprise.

The motion between them is so familiar that Legolas has already danced back, out of reach of her sword: doubtless he knew exactly when he made the noise that startled her and was already prepared to evade her defense. He wears his leathers; his knife is strapped to his hip and his bow slung over his back; his hair is braided back for stealth and for combat.

He offers her a tiny smile, though she sees and knows the pain behind his eyes. “I thought perhaps you would like a companion,” he offers.

Laerwen huffs an involuntary laugh. “Perhaps I would, at that,” she allows. “But you have dressed poorly for the occasion – I do not have subtlety in mind tonight.”

“I did not imagine you would,” he says. “But perhaps you would not be opposed to having someone there to observe the spectacle.”

Laerwen’s throat goes hard and tight, her chest seized in an ache equal parts grief and gratitude, and she loves him more in this moment than she imagined she could feel for anything anymore, with so much of her heart on its way over sea. She shakes her head, meaning _yes_ and _no_ and everything in between, and reaches out to catch his face between her hands and kiss his brow, slow and gentle and heavy with pain.

She has no voice to speak, but she knows he understands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END OF PART V.


	39. Part VI: Enduring, Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Books, here we come! We're barreling through the Hobbit here in a single chapter and will be on to the trilogy soon.
> 
> Be warned that I don't use movie canon and didn't reread the book for research because... I didn't want to. Mirkwood's role in the book is so small anyway, I just took the broad strokes of it and used them as I pleased.

Life . . . goes on.

Outside their borders, kingdoms change. The dwarven kingdom of Erebor is driven away by a dragon; the kingdom of Dale splinters and fractures. Kings of men die and are replaced; Laerwen keeps dutiful track of their names for her records, but the diplomacy they retain is more in name than fact. The other elvish sanctuaries send them word from time to time, to keep them appraised of the world far outside their land; Laerwen supposes it is a kindness, but it is one she has become nearly as suspicious of as her father by now. If they truly wished to be kind, they would send people and aid.

Inside their forest, no sign remains of the brief period of light they once dared to believe would be their salvation. Their borders are drawing inward yet again, as the hordes of orcs and spiders outside them multiply and close in, as the coldness emanates ever from Dol Guldur. The realms outside have called them Mirkwood for so long that occasionally Laerwen hears the younger elves begin to use the name themselves.

She is too weary to correct them.

With Siril gone as well as Cuindis, Laerwen’s days of aiding patrols have ended as well. The kingdom can ill afford to have both its heirs out on defense, and without any other to spare, Thranduil relies on her more heavily for diplomacy. And they need it more than ever before – they must ensure that their relations with Laketown and the other nearby kingdoms are sound, so that they might have somewhere to send their people, should worst come to worst.

(Laerwen wonders how many of them would go, if it came to that, but it can do no harm to have the option.)

Still, she and her father spar every day – locked away in a practice room, where no one save their nearest advisors and occasionally Legolas may observe. They know they will need to keep their skills sharp, so they hold back nothing. And, ironic though it may be, these moments are the only rare occasions that Laerwen sees her father let his guard down.

The elves hold revels as often as ever – perhaps more often. Thranduil knows the need to keep his people’s spirits up in the face of the malevolence that tries hard to keep them oppressed, and he puts on the merriest face of all. But Laerwen – and perhaps Legolas, as well – know that that cheer is born of spite more than anything else. Only when their blades clash so harshly that sparks fly does she see flashes of the fierce joy that she knew of him in her younger days; only when Legolas joins them for dinners does she see the last remnants of the tenderness she once saw in his eyes as he held her wounded head in his lap an age ago.

Perhaps she notices his unguarded moments more than ever now because she is coming to understand how he became the way he is.

* * *

To Laerwen’s own surprise, her hesitant truce with Hallassel seems to have deepened into something else. It seems that with Siril’s departure, Hallassel has come to recognize the true value of her siblings. Laerwen is cautious with her; Hallassel will never be a friend in whom she can confide, and she may never be able to win Laerwen’s forgiveness for the unhappiness in Siril’s childhood memories – but she is someone to talk to on days when the loneliness is too much and Legolas is away with his archers.

She maintains her friendship with Celair, of course, but that friendship changes depending on what they both need. Some days they meet to talk and laugh for long hours, remembering. Other days they simply sit together in sad, shared silence. Still other days, it is too much for both of them and they cannot bear to see one another at all.

It is easier with Hallassel, in some ways, for they do not have the shared depth of history and memory and feeling. Hallassel did not know her sister, not truly, so Laerwen can tell her stories without feeling the need to spare her pain, without the heaviness of shared memory and knowledge. It is a way of keeping Siril _here_, even when she is so far away across the sea – and it is a way of remembering her promise.

Hallassel is wed, she learns – recently so, and after some time she reveals that she has a young daughter: Gwileth. She says nothing of it, but Laerwen wonders if forming a new family, away from her parents, was the spark for her sudden change – for her realization that Siril was a sister worth holding on to, even if she did realize it too late.

She is protective of Gwileth, and with good reason. Children are rarer and rarer these days, even to those few couples who have found one another. On the few occasions that she sees Hallassel with her daughter, Laerwen can only find room for a fierce longing to have her brother by her side.

But mostly, there is not enough time to dwell on her loneliness. She keeps busy instead.

* * *

They have reclaimed the feast clearings to the east, though they dare not stray too far from the mountains. But when they celebrate, they do so with grandeur and defiance – great feasts, bright lanterns, singing and dancing as loudly as ever. It is a declaration to the evil that stalks their forest: _we are here; you cannot frighten us_ – and if they lose themselves in the music they can forget the guards that stand stationed around their clearing, ready to douse the lanterns at a moment if they need to.

They have ended a few celebrations abruptly before, when they feel the creeping darkness that indicates the wraiths has decided to pay a nighttime visit. But then they leave the lights burning to delay their foes as much as possible as they flee back to the safety of the mountain. Not yet have they had a chance to test these defenses.

Not until now.

They do not notice the sound in the undergrowth, too preoccupied by their music and their dancing – but suddenly they hear a warning cry from the sentry. The musicians stop playing; collectively the clearing of elves whirls towards the cry – and their eyes land on the dwarves bumbling through the trees and directly into their midst.

No one hesitates. In an instant the lanterns are out, the tables abandoned. Laerwen blinks twice in the sudden blackness, and then opens her ears to listen. She hears the faintest rustles of the other elves taking to the trees, and she follows them only when she knows no one else remains to need help.

She catches her father up in the darkness. “Dwarves?” she whispers. “What business have dwarves in the Greenwood?”

“I cannot imagine,” Thranduil murmurs. “Whatever it is, it cannot be good.”

The air warms near Laerwen, and she feels more than hears Legolas fall into step beside her, touching her arm to let her know he is there. “You think they are spies?”

“I think we cannot be too cautious. We will not pursue them, but if they follow us further, some action may have to be taken.”

* * *

Hours later, two more surprise appearances, and thirteen dwarves have been bundled into the wine cellars.

“I gave them two chances,” is all Thranduil will say. “For as long as they refuse to tell me their business here and who has sent them, they will remain where they can do no harm.”

Legolas’s mouth twists unhappily, but he does not speak, and Laerwen only nods. She will not be the one to overrule her father in this – and he is right that they cannot be too careful.

“And double the guards,” he orders her, the defiance of his merrymaking now curdled into stern command. “Something does not feel right about this.”

“They did not seem to be doing harm,” Legolas murmurs to her later, still with that tightness to his mouth – but he is a good soldier, and he will defer to commands.

Laerwen shrugs. “Adar’s instincts are not to be questioned,” is all she says. “And he is hard-pressed to trust these days.”

Legolas gives her the tiniest flash of a half-smile. “He trusts you.”

Laerwen sighs and pulls him close. For all she has been so long involved in the kingdom’s affairs, in its defenses and treaties, still she does not understand half of what goes on beyond her father’s eyes when he listens to reports; still he reveals only half of what he thinks – plans – fears. “Maybe.”

* * *

When they wake up one morning and find Galion unconscious and all the dwarves gone, Thranduil demands to know what has happened.

“Do you wish them pursued?” Laerwen asks, but she hopes he does not. They are spread too thin already.

He levels a long look at her, and finally shakes his head. “If they do not disturb us again, then we are better off for it. But I do not understand how they were able to escape their prisons.” He hesitates. “I will arrange an inspection of everything they may have touched. If some evil magic travels with them, I will have no trace of it lingering in our halls.”

But even he must know such a path is folly. He pursues it only so far as assigning it to Galion and Linae, two of the palace stewards who have no more pressing responsibilities. For all he may distrust dwarves, there are more important things for their military to attend to, and they are in no position to indulge whims.

But soon enough, a larger concern arises to divert them.

“Something is happening to the south,” Legolas says, when his unit returns from a days-long patrol – one in which they ventured closer to Dol Guldur than the elves usually dare. “The air feels different there. The trees – they seem to be stirring.”

“Different in what way?” says Thranduil carefully. “And stirring in what way? Is this some new danger, or some unlooked-for stroke of good fortune?”

The wryness in those last words strikes right to Laerwen’s spirit. Has he given up believing in fortune? But it is the next thought that makes her quail: has _she_?

“Power,” says Legolas. “It is not the same as – as _his_,” his voice lowers at the last word, “not _cold_, but – similarly forbidding. An aura, a skin-tingling – it radiates.” He flaps a frustrated hand. “I cannot explain it properly. It must be felt to be understood.”

Laerwen turns to look at her father. “Shall I” –

But his eyes have gone distant, and his silence is enough to cut her off. After a long moment, he shakes his head. “No. I will go.”

“Adar?” Rarer and rarer are the times, these days, when Thranduil leaves their palace, the center of their newly-tiny kingdom. Not because his skills or senses have in any way diminished, but some part of Laerwen – some part of all of them, she imagines – thinks of him as the magnetic center of their realm. As though he has gathered all the information they bring him, swallowed it and made it part of him; as though he contains all they are within himself, and if he strays too far, the forces that hold them together will fray and dissipate, and their kingdom will collapse in on itself.

“I have a suspicion,” he says quietly. “I would see if it is borne out.”

* * *

He takes Maeglad and Nimloth with him – two of the few advisors who remain from those times long ago. He refuses Legolas’s offer to accompany, to send some of his archers if he does not go himself. The three of them go alone, and Laerwen remains.

It feels lopsided and empty to be in the palace alone. Thranduil has gone away before, but only in the earliest days of the Shadow – after that, he stayed always near his people, bolstering them with his presence and his wits and his determination. She has harbored suspicions that he might have slipped out from time to time, deep at night or during the times when she too was away, but it is nothing more than a feeling she has never dared to ask about . . . and he has always kept it from her, unlike this certainty now, the purpose with which he departed. He may not be gone for long, but his absence leaves a cold tingling, like a missing limb.

For all that she attempted to prepare herself for such a happening over years and years, Laerwen realizes she has taken her father’s presence for granted – that no matter what happens beyond their borders, he will always remain here, at the center, holding them all together.

She is being too dramatic, maybe, for he returns within two days – but those days stretched longer than a hundred years, and it is only the closely-wrought distance they have spent so many years building that keeps her from hurling himself into his arms when he returns.

“Mithrandir has returned,” he says, shrugging out of his leather armor. “He was the only one I could find in the area, but he was not alone. You were right, Legolas – that power is great and forbidding, too much so to be his alone. I have my suspicions, but.” He purses his lips and speaks no more.

“Why, then?” persists Laerwen. “What was his business here – their business, if there were others?”

“Sauron is gone again, Mithrandir tells me.” He must be, if Thranduil has said his name aloud – he must not believe it will turn some malevolent eye upon them. “I believe him, though as with last time I cannot say for how long. And you can feel it, can you not? – he is still here, even if he has fled. His presence still hovers over everything it has touched. But” – He sighs. “I ought not begrudge those who have shown an interest in our forest, even if it is still in me to question their motivations – and why they would not come earlier.”

“As before,” Laerwen murmurs.

“As before.”

There is no celebration this time, not even the flicker of relief. Every time Laerwen has dared to believe in some kind of hope, something even dearer has been snatched away from her. There is only so much she has left to lose, and she will not take its safety for granted.

“Something is changing,” Thranduil says, his words echoing her own thoughts. “Something is different, and I know not what it is – but we must be on our guard. Wherever our enemy has fled, I sense that we will need all our wits about us in time to come.”

* * *

Perhaps it is this sense that something has changed that leads Thranduil to leave the palace again – indeed, to leave the forest entirely.

The message comes from Laketown a few weeks later, and it brings the hint of answers to the questions that Sauron’s departure forced them to put aside. The dragon – the one that took up residence in the mountains some hundred years ago, that chased the dwarves of Erebor away from their kingdom and has forced the men of Laketown to live in fear – is gone: chased out by a surprising group of dwarves and slain at last by the man Bard – a descendant, it seems, of the previous kingdom of Dale.

“That must have been their aim, then,” murmurs Laerwen, thinking of the party formerly imprisoned in their cellars. “To reclaim the mountain for themselves.”

“For themselves and no one else, it seems,” her father scoffs, reading ahead in the scroll the messenger has brought them. “They have now holed themselves up in the mountain and helped themselves to the dragon’s hoard, and will spare no treasure for the men of Laketown, whose city was destroyed in the dragon’s wrath.” He passes the scroll to her, so she may see for herself. “Laketown requests our aid.”

“_Supplies for the wounded_,” she reads aloud, “_and what warriors you are willing to spare_.” To intimidate the dwarves, perhaps, into granting their aid? “And do we give it to them?”

He says nothing for a time, calculations practically visible behind his eyes. “Yes,” he decides at last. “The supplies at least, and we have some gold in our treasury to spare.” They have become less reliant on other kingdoms for supplies, wishing to be self-sufficient should the worst come to pass, and they trade for what they still need rather than purchasing it with gold. “If Laketown is rebuilding, and our aid is requested by one with the birthright of Dale – this may well be a worthy alliance to forge now.”

“And the warriors?” If they had not the numbers to spare to chase down a stray group of dwarves, they certainly do not –

“Yes,” Thranduil says again, raising his eyebrows at her when she glares. “It will likely not come to a fight,” he says. “And we have warriors as yet untrained in fighting outside our forest. It will be a worthwhile experience for them.”

Laerwen hears what he does not say: _And if the dwarves can be persuaded to give up their hoard, it might be to our advantage._ She says nothing of that, but asks instead, “You would take the younger warriors, then?”

“I would.”

She supposes they are not _young_ as such, much older than she was when she first left the forest, but she cannot help thinking of them as children regardless – especially since the number of true children in the kingdom can be counted on her fingers.

“Adar,” she starts.

His head whips so fast to face her that his hair stings her cheek. “_Yes_, Laerwen?”

Her back _snaps_ straight, her jaw tightening. “It will be as you say, sire,” she says.

Silence tautens between them for a moment, and then the set of his jaw relaxes. “As I said, I do not anticipate a fight,” he says. “The work will be mostly rebuilding, and the force only for show. It ought to be a safe way to introduce our younger generation to the world outside our borders, and hopefully forge a worthy alliance while we can.”

She cannot feel quite as certain as he does, but it is not her place to speak up. “Very well, my lord. Tell me which units to mobilize.”

“I will do that myself,” he says. At first she thinks it is an attempt to soften her frustration, but his next words crush the fragile blossom of that hope. “I will be leading the force; you will remain here to direct the defenses.”

At that, she cannot help speaking up again. “I am your chief diplomat,” she says. “Would it not make more sense if I go?”

“It has been long since we have made our presence known as a kingdom,” he responds. “I will go, this once, and negotiate with the other kings we meet there. You are more than my diplomat, Laerwen. You are my second, and I need someone I trust here while I am away.”

She could argue with his logic, but she also understands it. She remembers his words of weeks ago: _something is changing. _ If he has an eye to alliances, he must have meant that indeed. And it will be good for her to become more used to his absence – to remind herself of her own duties. She will not be taken by surprise at another loss. “Very well. I will remain here and ensure that no harm comes to our realm while you remind the world of our presence.”

He gives her a tiny smile. It is the closest to apology and forgiveness that either of them come these days. But the smile fades in moments.

“Then I must tell you the last decision I have made. It will displease you, but it is final.” And there is something in his tone that tells her exactly what that decision is, even before he speaks it.

“Legolas will be coming with me.”

* * *

“You know I am capable,” Legolas murmurs into her ear when she hugs him goodbye, holding on too long. “I have been tested and tested – and likely it will not even come to a fight. The men of Laketown” –

“Only wish for aid and the appearance of intimidation, I know.” Laerwen squeezes him tighter. “Still, I wish I could be at your side.” She kisses his cheek. “Be safe, and come swiftly home bearing good news.”

* * *

With them both gone, Laerwen’s world turns ghostly and bleak, drained of all color and substance.

There is no noticeable difference in the forest at the absence of their enemy: his wraiths still command the fortress, and still haunt the forest to the torment of those unfortunate enough to still be out alone at night, with no fire at hand. Her duties do not change, not truly, though she stores up all the reports she receives to relay to her father – for she finds herself suddenly at a loss without his advice, without his calm acceptance of all information, without his firm decisive commands.

And Legolas –

They are the two last things Laerwen has come to count on, the two last constants in her world: her father’s steady strength, something she did not realize she has been leaning on all her life, trusting to hold her up. And the vibrant joy that is Legolas – that belief in hope and love, even when all seems hopeless; his clear voice in song or laughter; the powerful gentleness of his spirit. Without him, Laerwen has forgotten how to see the gold of the sun as it falls through the branches of trees, the bright ribbon in the tapestry Siril left her, the one that still hangs on her chamber walls.

They are away on a simple mission, but still Laerwen feels so alone.

She practically snatches the message away from the messenger when it comes, hungry eyes falling on her father’s script – elegant in a way that belies the short, terse sentences of his message.

_Unexpected foes arose, and we have forged new alliances through battle. Erebor and Dale are reforming as kingdoms. I will send you out when we return to meet those leaders you will treat with. We will return soon._

And then below, a postscript in Legolas’s hand.

_We are both well and suffered no grievous losses._

She smiles, tracing his letters with a finger. Leave it to him to think of her, even as her father packs as many practicalities into as few lines as he can.

She will tease the story out of Legolas when he returns – when he brings the color back to her world.


	40. Part VI, Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fitting with my own canon (and thus my own fridging) is the worst sometimes; that's all I can say.

Mithrandir’s visits are never meant as pleasantries.

Especially not this one, especially not when he has materialized with a travel-worn ranger in tow, a mortal man too tall and too similar in bearing to those Laerwen remembers from Gondor long ago to be anything other than a descendant.

He introduces himself as Strider, but Gandalf cuts him off. “Aragorn,” he says, “son of Arathorn and descendant of Isildur.” He nudges the man. “You stand in the presence of some who fought alongside your noble ancestors an age ago.”

_And were less than impressed with them,_ Laerwen thinks. Well – she still remembers her young self, overawed and intimidated in the presence of royalty who carried themselves with a grace and strength she had yet to understand. But even more vividly does she remember Oropher’s scorn, the way her father’s lip would curl when he returned from an evening meeting with Elrond and Isildur. All of these memories flash through her mind and body with the potency of aged wine – as if she were still there, in the midst of it – but she recovers herself quickly, squeezing Legolas’s hand as much to steady herself as to remind him to keep quiet.

Not that she thinks he would interrupt. Always, during these rare moments that he is present for such an audience, she can feel him tense with nervous energy beside her, merely waiting for the moment he will be permitted to turn and flee. It is not a kindness to demand his presence – but their realm allows for fewer and fewer kindnesses, these days.

“It is an honor,” says the man – Aragorn – in Sindarin with the stately accent of a Rivendell elf, at odds with his travel-rough voice. He bows low before them. “I have heard great things of the hardiness and ingenuity of the people of the Greenwood.”

“You flatter us,” says Thranduil dryly. Certainly he has heard little enough praise if he hails from Rivendell. “But I notice you provide no introduction to your third companion.”

Ah, yes, the third companion. It is a small, spindly creature – shorter and bonier than any dwarf Laerwen has ever seen, and beardless to boot. It is the size of a child, but the long, lank hair and malicious gleam in its eyes seem to speak of something much older and much more menacing.

“This is Smeagol, also called Gollum,” Mithrandir says. “We have hunted him over great distance and time, and he has provided us a merry chase indeed” – Aragorn sighs at the word _merry_ – “but at last we have caught him, and seek a place where he might not be able to wreak any mischief. Friends of ours have spoken fond words of your cellars, and we thought they might suffice.”

Legolas flinches at the last sentence, but Laerwen does not dare look over at him. Thranduil raises an eyebrow and lets the slight pass. “Is he a halfling?”

A halfling – of course. The small creature who evidently haunted their halls for the weeks the dwarves were here, who eventually let them out. Still they have not been able to work out how he was not discovered, but perhaps Mithrandir hopes that if they are aware of their prisoner this time, he will not work similar mischief.

“Near enough to one,” says Mithrandir. “Indeed, he had a hand in the events of several years ago that led to your new neighbors.” He places enough stress on the word _events_ that Laerwen’s jaw tightens – it is a reminder, surely, of what they owe him. That they certainly cannot turn down this request.

Thranduil knows it. “And what do you ask of us, then?” he says, his voice tired. “Merely to keep him prisoner? Have you any end in mind? We have much to concern us, Mithrandir. We cannot keep a captive indefinitely, particularly not when we know not what he has done to warrant imprisonment.”

“Indefinite, but not infinite,” Mithrandir assures them. “You recall that I told you long ago that something was changing.” His lips purse. “That change, I fear, is coming on swifter than even I could have foreseen.”

* * *

And so they have a prisoner.

“What is to be done with him?” Laerwen asks once the others have departed, when they all – she and Thranduil and Legolas, Maeglad and Nimloth – stand around the smallest, deepest cell where their prisoner sits huddled in a corner. All he has done is spit at them and refuse food, hissing and flinging away the bread they offered in favor of a live snake he found slithering across the damp floor of his cell. They can hear the sickening slurping sounds of him eating it now – but he does not seem to understand their tongue, so they speak freely.

Thranduil sighs. “I do not know. But I could not refuse Mithrandir’s request – which he knew well enough.” They all stare for a moment longer. “He is a pitiful thing, though – if also repulsive.”

“We will have to keep a careful eye on him,” says Nimloth. “If he worked such mischief as to be involved in the events Mithrandir claimed, he is not to be underestimated.”

“But who will guard him?” counters Maeglad. “Who does not have other tasks to attend to?”

Thranduil looks pensive for a moment. “You said your younger warriors are progressing well, did you not, Maeglad? That you had your eye on a few that you would consider elevating in the next few years?”

“I did,” says Maeglad cautiously. “Though I would not advise giving them active duty just yet.”

“Perfect.” Thranduil nods decisively. “Legolas.”

“You have need of me?”

“I am reassigning you. Galvorn’s and Hadril’s patrols will expand to cover your territory, and the majority of your warriors will add to their forces. You will take command of Maeglad’s students to guard the prisoner. It ought to be a safe enough task for them, and they will be glad of something to do.”

“It may not be enough for them to do,” Legolas points out. “Unless” – His eyes brighten. “Do you think we ought to take him for walks? Mithrandir said he had been alone in dank caves for long years. Perhaps the forest would do him good?” He looks up, as though awaiting permission.

“I leave that up to you,” Thranduil says. “He is your charge now.”

“And” – Legolas clamps his mouth shut before he can finish, but they can all guess what he would have asked.

“Yours and your second’s, of course,” Thranduil amends. It is an indulgence few, if any, would receive – but Legolas and Eleniel are part and parcel; separating them would be a cruelty. Especially because this situation – being given command of a new group – would be merciless to thrust Legolas into alone.

“I will do as you command, then,” Legolas says.

“And I will tell Hallassel,” says Laerwen. “Gwileth will surely be under you, and she will be relieved to know that her daughter will be in good hands.”

* * *

Legolas takes a keen interest in their prisoner indeed.

It is true, it is not enough for his students to do, so he takes to leading his old patrol once a week – or whenever parties of orcs or spiders have drawn near enough to the halls that they need to be driven off by Legolas’s stealth force. But otherwise the students rotate in their responsibilities of guarding the creature in his cellars, and every day their group together goes on a long walk with Smeagol in tow, so that Legolas might teach them his ways of moving in the forest, spotting danger, and keeping an eye on a target.

But there is more than that, he insists – more than mere teaching to these excursions.

“It gives me hope for him,” he says one day, his eyes bright and eager. “He is always calmer after the walks, I think – perhaps from being exposed to trace amounts of sunlight but protected by the shade of the forest. Maybe he can yet be healed of whatever corruption has laid him so low.”

How he can have grown up in such darkness and so much loss, and yet retain such a soft heart and such bright hope, Laerwen does not know – but it gives her hope in her turn.

“Perhaps,” she says. “Perhaps he can.”

* * *

When the alarm sounds, Laerwen is deep within the mountain.

The hunting horn is blown for only one reason in the forest: attack. And the note – it sounds strange from within the palace walls, echoing through the windows and bouncing off the stones – but she hears it louder than she ought, clearer. Attack – attack _nearby_, attack within their bounds, only a few miles from their halls!

She springs to her feet and runs.

There is no time for armor; there is no time for anything. The halls are filled with others rushing in different directions, following their procedure: the few families with children retreat deeper in, where they can be protected if necessary; the warriors – and there are more of them now – seize what weapons they have and continue on.

The echoes of the horn still bounce off trees when they burst free of the caverns. There is nothing here, nothing immediate – so at least the attack did not reach directly to their doors. But where –

“That way!” cries Celair. Like Siril, ze has become a warrior only out of necessity – but also like Siril, ze has a keen sense of the forest, and can easily track when something is amiss. Laerwen follows hir with no hesitation; she trusts hir senses over anything the rest of them might be able to guess from listening to the echoes.

And so they run.

A mile, two miles – nothing yet, no sounds of a struggle. Perhaps hundreds of years ago Laerwen might have dared to hope that that meant the warning was a false alarm, or that the attack was easily repelled.

Not today.

A few furlongs more, and they come across it.

Laerwen manages not to cry out, but only with centuries of self-restraint. It is closer to their halls than orc parties have ever dared attack before, but certainly this was one – the ground and trees are torn up in a way that only they do, and the telltale stench lingers about the place. And on the ground –

On the ground are strewn three bodies.

Beside her, Laerwen hears a muffled sob, but pays no mind to who released it. She steps slowly forward to examine the first body before her – for the slight, faint possibility that the elf might still be alive.

There is no chance for the other two. Their necks are at unnatural angles, obviously broken. Obviously dead.

She drops to her knees, fingers finding the pulse point so easily she hardly has to look anymore. There – in the one mercy of this day, a faint whisper of a beat. One of their warriors survives.

Beside her, Celair lets out a cry.

“Laerwen,” ze says, hir voice hoarse and hopeless, lifting the limp wrist of one of the dead elves. “Laerwen, look.”

It is Gwileth.

Laerwen’s first thought is of the niece she has come to know, of the sister-in-law who has so hesitantly ventured into her life – Hallassel will be devastated – but those thoughts are but a flicker compared to the blinding flame that explodes into being next.

_Legolas_.

Gwileth was under Legolas’s command; this is Legolas’s patrol, the ones responsible for guarding the creature Mithrandir put into their hands. _Legolas_.

In a flash, she is on her feet.

“You,” she growls, turning to the first person behind her and thrusting the limp body of the one survivor into his arms. “Take her back to the halls and find a healer. Celair, Damion, Lachor, Faimes – with me. The rest of you, follow at a distance, in case we need aid. We track.”

Tracking is not hard – or should not be. The orcs were eager to flee, it seems, and made no effort to hide the trail of broken branches and trampled earth they left behind them. But all the same, Laerwen can hardly see the forest around her, and must trust in the sharp senses of Faimes and Celair to lead her true – for all she can think is of her brother.

Is he with them? He must be; his body was not in the clearing, and he would not have fled from a fight – unless they took him captive. Unless they have taken him as a prize, knowing who he is, knowing that his family would do anything to bring him back –

What could they be doing to him? What could they be doing right now, if they have already outrun the elves? What horrible torments might they have in store for him, if she cannot catch up in time –

“Laerwen!”  
Her thoughts are so full of him that when she hears his voice she thinks it merely her own desperate imagination. But the hands falling on her shoulders are real enough, and the feel of his presence – even her memory could not be so perfect as the real thing.

She cannot even reconcile herself to the urgency in his eyes at first: she throws her arms around him and holds on tight.

But he does not return the embrace. “Laerwen,” he says urgently into her ear, “you must come with us now.” Us? She blinks over his head and realizes that Eleniel, Lim, and one of the other novice warriors whose name she does not know have come to flank him. “They have fled south, and Smeagol has gone with them. The four of us are not enough to take the fortress, but” –

The fortress? At last the sense of his words penetrates her mind, and she pulls back and shakes her head until it clears. “Dol Guldur?” she says. “They fled there?”

“We think so,” says Eleniel, coming to stand beside Legolas. “They moved in that direction; we dared not follow them alone, but it seems you have brought reinforcements.”

“Reinforcements to seek you!” exclaims Laerwen. “We saw the – the struggle” –

“The bodies,” grates Legolas, bitterness in every syllable. “Do not spare me the truth.”

“We thought they had taken you captive,” Laerwen whispers. “Did they take any others?”

“Nithpantir is missing,” Legolas says heavily. “There were two forces, we think – one that we fought, leaving the novices responsible for keeping their eyes on our captive. But when we had fought off the first force, we returned to find bodies and nothing more. We have pursued them, but we are too few; we dared not chase them all the way to the fortress alone. But with your help” –

He trails off, and all eyes turn to Laerwen.

She glances over their force: ten only followed her; the rest of the warriors she saw in the halls surely remained at the mouth of the caverns, there to defend the others should the attack continue. She thinks about the bodies left in the clearing, the prisoner whose care was entrusted to them, and the one who will no doubt suffer horrors at the hands of the orcs who have him –

“We will go,” she says, “but swiftly and cautiously. If we catch them before they have reached the fortress, we will attack in the hopes of recovering our friend and our captive. But if we do not” – she swallows, and she remembers her father’s words, thousands of years ago: _I will not let any more of them be squandered_ – “no one approaches Dol Guldur.”

“But,” Legolas begins.

“I will not be disobeyed,” she says. Knives shred through her throat as she pulls rank on her brother, but this cannot be risked. “We have already lost two warriors, perhaps three. I will not risk any more of us on this prisoner. I know that Mithrandir takes his safety seriously, but we lack the numbers to attack the fortress in force – particularly when we know what dwells there.” The attacks may have dwindled from that front, but they all know the terror of the wraith, the dark fear it brings, the deadly touch of its blade. She stares each elf down in turn. “We go as far as we may, but we do not approach the fortress. And the more anyone argues with me, the more time we waste when we could be pursuing.”

* * *

Their journey back north is subdued and nearly silent.

Laerwen’s mouth is filled with the bitter, metallic taste of failure; she can feel the heaviness of their eyes on her back, at times respectful and resentful. The fortress remains untouched; the orc party they chased vanished into a forbidding mist. They found no sign of Nithpantir, and she fancies she can feel his accusing eyes on her as well – if he is still alive to know that his comrades have turned their backs on him. But she swallows down her shame, her bitterness, and keeps her head upright and her back rigid.

Legolas walks beside her. She wonders how long he will despise her for this.

The silence holds for a long, long time, and to her surprise, it is Legolas who breaks it.

“Gwileth died,” he says quietly. Nothing more – only those two words, and to her alone, although all who walk with them can hear it. She wonders if he speaks those words as an accusation to her, for leaving another elf behind, or to himself – or merely because he cannot hold them inside any longer.

“I know,” is all she can respond.

He hesitates. “I am sorry,” he murmurs at last.

A lump rises in her throat and cuts off the voice for any speech she might have found. Instead, she merely slips her hand into his.

* * *

Laerwen watches her father while Legolas and Eleniel give their report. By rights they should have given it first thing when they returned from their unsuccessful chase, but Legolas insisted on visiting the parents of the fallen warriors first – and though he will never admit it, Laerwen thinks their father has even more trouble pulling rank on Legolas than she does.

So now he stands before them, his eyes heavy and his cheeks stained with tears, Eleniel filling in for him whenever he cannot seem to find the words, and gives the report to their king that Laerwen has already heard.

(She will go visit Hallassel later. If her sister-in-law will ever welcome her again.)

Thranduil sighs when Legolas has finished. “And so our enemy is a step ahead of us, as he always is,” he says.

“Your Majesty?” says Eleniel.

“I know not why the prisoner Smeagol was entrusted to us,” says Thranduil, “but Mithrandir believed it important. And if he has fled to Dol Guldur, then he is surely connected to our enemy of all these long years.” His jaw firms. “There is nothing for it. Someone must go to Rivendell, to carry the news to the ranger and hopefully pass them on to Mithrandir as well.”

“I will.”

Legolas speaks with so little hesitation that Laerwen wonders if he anticipated this solution before their father spoke it. But beside him, Eleniel startles.

“Perhaps it would be for the best if I went instead,” she says. “You will be needed more here than I will, and I can just as easily” –

“Eleniel.” Legolas turns to her as though forgetting where he stands, shares one of the looks with her that reminds Laerwen of the silent communication she once shared with Siril. She wondered once, long ago, if Legolas and Eleniel would wed, but neither have showed any inclination to it, and now she can admit that it is better so.

She says nothing as they communicate wordlessly, waiting for her father to turn the offer down, but instead he clears his throat delicately.

They both snap around to face him again; Legolas embarrassed, Eleniel a little fearful. But he only gazes at them with the tiniest softening of his eyes and lips – the closest he comes to a smile in company. “You may both go.”

“Adar?” Laerwen cannot stop herself from asking.

“We have already divided out the patrol,” Thranduil says. “They can do without both of you for the moment, and when you return we may re-evaluate where to station them. But you are right that the message is yours to deliver.”

Legolas’s shoulders drop in shame, but then he straightens up. “It is,” he says, his chin thrust forward in determination. “And I will not disappoint you this time.”

* * *

“He did not disappoint you at all,” Laerwen murmurs to her father after Legolas and Eleniel have gone to pack their things.

“No.” Thranduil settles back in his chair. “But he would not believe me even if I told him that. He must have some time to recover from his perceived failure – and you know how Legolas is. It will do him good to leave the forest for a time, to face the consequences, and to learn to reconcile himself to the way things are.”

* * *

Legolas and Eleniel leave the very next day.

Lim accompanies them, and Hadril – as guards, where Legolas and Eleniel go as messengers. Laerwen wishes she could send them with more protection, but they cannot spare it, and the journey to Rivendell is too long.

She comes to say her farewells directly from Hallassel’s home. Her sister-in-law did not welcome her warmly or dismiss her; she seemed to wander the home in a daze, hardly accepting Laerwen’s words of sympathy.

Laerwen did not dare to mention Legolas’s name. She hopes she will not sacrifice her new, tentative friendship with Hallassel for it – but if that is the cost, she will pay it gladly. Legolas bears no blame for this loss, and he will never find it from Laerwen, no matter how grievous.

Indeed not, for he takes enough blame onto himself.

“I will make up for it, Laerwen,” he murmurs in her ear when she hugs him goodbye. “Or, as much as such a thing may be possible.”

“There is nothing to make up for.” But she blinks back tears at the words – thinking of Hallassel who has lost her daughter, thinking of how easily she might have lost Legolas as well. It is all she can do not to cling to him at the thought of this last good thing slipping away – the last piece of her heart that remains to her.

“I know she was all you had left of” –

Laerwen stops him before he can say Siril’s name. “It was not your fault,” she says fiercely. “And it would not matter to me even if it had been. Nothing compares to your safety, do you understand? Do not let your perceptions of your own failure convince you to put that in jeopardy.” He says nothing, and she squeezes his shoulders. “_You_ are the most precious thing in this forest, Legolas,” she says. “And I beg you to return to it safely.”

“I will do my best,” he promises her.

When they ride off, she stands watching for long after even the sound of their horses’ hooves has faded away.

* * *

A few weeks later, Eleniel and the guards return.

Legolas is no longer with them.


	41. Part VI, Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just assume that the reason the lore of the Ring was never brought up before was that they have not been thinking about it for several thousand years. Please?

Eleniel swears them to secrecy before telling them the details. They arrived in Rivendell to an impromptu council, as people from all over Middle-earth had come to bring or seek information that all centered around a similar topic. It dealt with the Enemy’s Ring, she explains.

The Ring. Laerwen snaps her head around to meet her father’s eyes. They never encountered it, only heard the tales, pieced together from whispers and rumor – first of the legendary source of Sauron’s power, then of the folly and disappearance of Isildur. And – if the murmured suspicions about the other realms are true – they are the only elven kingdom without the protection of one of the Three.

“It has been found, then?” says Thranduil.

“By a halfling,” Eleniel confirms. “The very same one who stole invisibly through our halls eighty years ago and freed the dwarves from the cellars.”

One of Thranduil’s eyebrows rises. The corner of his mouth twitches, and for a moment Laerwen thinks he might smile. “Well, I suppose that explains a few things,” he murmurs. “And Mithrandir has decided it is time to do something with this Ring?”

“To destroy it,” Eleniel says. “And he has sent out a small fellowship to perform the task – Legolas among them.”

She says not where; possibly even she was not told, but Laerwen knows well enough. To Mordor itself. And while Eleniel rattles off the names of the others on the journey, she blanches to think of her brother in that wasteland – that land that claimed so many of their people, so long ago. That land she hoped they were done with forever.

“Thank you for your report,” Thranduil says abruptly, and dismisses Eleniel with a wave of his hand. She bows and flees, and then he and Laerwen are alone.

“I would he had never needed to see that land,” she whispers at last.

“As would I.” He passes a hand over his face. “But it is done now, and we must turn our attention to matters here. I cannot imagine that the Enemy will go quietly, even if he knows not of our plans. He is growing restless, clearly sensing that something is amiss – and his wrath will show in our forest. We must be prepared.”

“We will be,” she says. “I will reinstate Eleniel as acting commander of the archers in Legolas’s absence, and then we will have another unit at our disposal.”

“Good,” he says. “As to the rest, we will merely have to wait and see what next cruel blow fate has to throw our way.” He takes a deep breath, his face falling into tired lines. “But if you will excuse me, I first intend to go to my study and drink myself into a stupor.” He lowers his head into his hands, shedding his dignity at last perhaps in the shock of the news – the fear of what they might have to lose. “Tell Sauron not to attack while I am indisposed.”

* * *

Restless indeed.

The attack that Legolas’s party weathered recently, the one that struck so near to their halls, was only the beginning. The raiding parties increase, growing bolder each time they strike, and their forces are seemingly endless. The spiders work with no other creatures, however evil their purposes, but it seems the orcs are willing to sacrifice the pleasure of killing for the satisfaction of causing death. More than one party of elves has found itself driven back by an orc raid directly into a nest of spiders.

At night, the wraiths from Dol Guldur ride closer and closer to the halls – they do not draw near enough to the elves’ lights to force a fight, not yet, but near enough to spread their oppressive, chilling terror.

The elves try all they can think of – spreading their patrols thinner, to cover more ground, only results in parties too small to fight off the enemy; grouping their units together to present a better force means that too many areas are left uncovered, too many holes that their enemy can slip through.

They are simply too few, and their enemy seems to grow more powerful every day.

* * *

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," says Maeglad, reporting back after one last desperate attempt at offense. Dejection is plain in every angle of his body, in the downward slant of his lips. "But there are simply too many. It is all we can do to hold them back from our homes; we can reclaim no territory. I think” – His shoulders tense as he says it, but he persists nonetheless. "I think it may be time to look for aid."

They cannot reach Lothlórien; Dol Guldur stands between them, and the aura of terror from that place is greater than it has ever been. There is only one place to turn, and Thranduil's lips press together.

"You are right," he says. "Laerwen, go – no. No, we need you here. Assemble a small party, as many as can be spared, of scouts and diplomats you trust. We came once to Dale's aid before; perhaps now they will come to ours."

* * *

The news only grows worse.

"None?" Laerwen says, staring at Iruion, who appears to wish he were anywhere but here. As dire as things have become, she did not allow herself to imagine they could be this bad. "Dale can spare no warriors to come to our aid?"

"Neither Dale nor Erebor," repeats Iruion. Laerwen looks straight ahead, pretending she does not see her father's eyes flash in her direction. It was she who instructed the party to inquire at Erebor for support in addition to Dale. In her defense, he did not explicitly tell her _not_ to – but that can be dealt with later. "Their people say that there has been suspicious activity from Rhún lately, and they expect soon to be besieged themselves. They send their apologies, but they can spare no numbers from their own defense, lest they be overrun as well."

Thranduil spits a curse, and Iruion jumps in shock. Laerwen cannot help raising her eyebrows as well; long years have passed since she last saw her father's self-control slip so in front of an audience. "As always, we are a useful barrier between the mortals and the darkness, but they can spare no thought for us in their turn." He waves a hand, dismissing Iruion without further words, and the latter turns and runs. A wise decision, Laerwen thinks, as her father turns on her. "You instructed them to send word to Erebor?"

She lifts her chin and stares right back at him. "We needed help."

"And still do, thanks to their refusal!”

She refuses to let him cow her – not now, not in their moment of great need. “Do you expect me to express regret?”

He glares at her, and she glares back. Something inside her thrills at her own defiance, but there is no delight in this – not when her father’s gaze is only a spark compared to the building conflagration that threatens to incinerate them all.

The glare between them holds for two seconds – three – four – and then he yields all at once, sagging and sinking, dropping into this throne like a moth felled from the sky and pressing two fingers to the spot between his eyes. All at once he looks more tired and defeated than she has seen him in a thousand years. “No,” he sighs. “We needed aid, and we still need it. Abandoned on all fronts, with dwindling forces and dwindling hope, and our last green leaf miles away to the south fighting a foe greater even than those that threaten us. Your mother would flay me for despairing, but I confess I see no way out."

Laerwen’s own belligerence leaves her at the sight of him so dejected, at the defeat in his voice. Never has she heard her father sound so hopeless. Yet she can feel it herself, that heavy coldness pressing on her spirit, threatening to extinguish the last flame of hope to which she has dared to cling; a chill, heavy fog sweeps over her, wrapping her, surrounding her –

No! She does not imagine it; it is real – a real cold, sweeping through her body, and her very bones tremble as the screaming begins.

"The wraith," she gasps, reaching out. Their conflict forgotten, her father's hand finds hers; their fingers cling. If it has launched an attack on them, they have no fire at hand, no strength to rise and run or fight – all is hopeless and lost and cold; she can hear the screams of her people from outside, and feel the grating of her bones as the wraith's scream echoes the sound –

And then it is gone.

Warmth seeps back in; the room lightens; Laerwen blinks the spots away from her vision and shivers hard, shedding cold, feeling her father's fingers warm in hers. It is lighter, suddenly, than it has been in years. The cries of shock and horror die away.

"Did it – leave?" she croaks.

"I do not – wait." Thranduil's face flushes with color again; he springs from his seat with enough energy to make Laerwen to doubt her own memory, to wonder if the limp despair of moments ago was nothing but an imagining. "Wait."

He strides down the halls, not running but only just, and Laerwen has to jog to keep up. "Adar?"

"_Wait_."

They burst from the halls out into the open forest, where so few elves still live these days. Those who do have congregated around the doors, on their way to flee inside – but there is no sign of carnage, no sign of the despair that held them all only moments ago. No more screaming, no one wounded – only puzzled murmurs as they all try to adjust to the same lightness that Laerwen feels, that absence of a weight she has ceased to even notice dragging her down.

"Adar?" she repeats, feeling like a resentful child with her father keeping things from her.

"They were leaving," he whispers, his gaze arrowing to the sky as though he can watch where they have gone, trace their path away. "They took their winged steeds and flew away. He must have called them south."

"Legolas," Laerwen whispers. Why then does her father look so hopeful?

"Yes," he says. "But – if he is calling his wraiths south, he has lost his best defenders here. Spiders we can manage, orcs we can fight. If he has taken his best servants away . . ." A tiny smile begins to play at the corner of his mouth. "Then I think we have been given our one chance to strike."

* * *

Their forces are assembled within a week.

They are so few, it is folly to attack now – but they will not have a stronger force than this in a thousand years, and if their Enemy is distracted, this blow may be the best chance they have. And perhaps – Laerwen dares to think this, though none of them speak it aloud – perhaps if they can strike him here, they will weaken him far to the south, where her brother faces him at even greater might.

He is still alive, she is sure – she _must _be. She would know if he were not; she cannot bear to believe otherwise.

Eleniel takes command of Legolas's small force of archers; they will be the first to approach the fortress, to scout the area and pick off any foes they can without being discovered. Laerwen cringes to watch one so young at the head of their group; she knows her own skills will be needed elsewhere, and would be of little use there anyway – but still she wishes she did not have to watch her brother's dearest friend lead a foray into enemy territory.

She cannot hold back the relief that it is not Legolas leading that mission, even as she determines to keep a close eye on Eleniel's safety, so that he will not return – and he will return! he must! – to such a loss.

She and Thranduil travel at the center, in the midst of all the different units and divisions that range around them, constantly trading places so that their order and organization will be difficult to track. They move in a winding path for similar reasons, slaughtering all the spiders that they meet in their path, but hoping that their motion will not be clear for any foes who pursue – and archers and blade fighters alike march south.

The few left in their kingdom unable to fight have barricaded themselves in the mountain, in the hopes that the attack will not leave them undefended for too long. Some few warriors remain to look after them, but if this strike fails, their only hope is to flee, and hope that the Dalemen and the dwarves have held their ground enough to give them refuge.

There are no children. The youngest generation of the Greenwood marches with them, and if they do not succeed, it will be the last.

* * *

On the second day of their journey, the sun does not rise.

“The end nears,” is all her father will say of it.

To whatever end that is, she can sense that he is right.


	42. Part VI, Chapter 4

"Your Majesty."

Laerwen does not startle at Eleniel's voice, but it is a near thing. The stealth of Legolas's forces is formidable indeed, and much as she dislikes it, there is no one better to lead their attack. She can only hope that their first venture close to the fortress attracted as little attention as their return.

"What is it?" says Thranduil beside her. He shows even less surprise at Eleniel's arrival than Laerwen feels, so either he heard her coming or he simply did not betray his surprise.

"Your Majesty, there are elves in the woods."

"Elves?" Laerwen's father sits straight up. "You are certain?"

Eleniel nods. "In great numbers. More than our own."

"Describe them to me," Thranduil commands.

"We did not look too closely, your Majesty, but they are – different. Fair-skinned and pale-haired" – She stops abruptly, and Laerwen thinks that were the light better she would see Eleniel blushing as she realizes she has just described Thranduil himself. "And they speak a Silvan tongue, but it is different from our own. We did not approach any nearer, for fear that they would discover us, but" –

"Lórien," Thranduil breathes, and resentment and grudging relief wage a swift shadow war across his features. Then he pulls himself up; Laerwen rises beside him without a word. "Take me to these elves," he orders. "I would speak with their leaders."

* * *

The meeting takes place in whispers, in the dark shadow of the fortress of Dol Guldur, surrounded by a ring of warriors on the alert for any foes. Laerwen and her father opposite the lady and lord of Lothlórien.

“Word from the south brought you here?” says Thranduil. “What word? And from whom?”

Laerwen stiffens. _Legolas?_ For who else would have sent them here? Who else would have reminded them of the threat that lay near to their own home?

The lady nods, though Laerwen has not spoken aloud. “Yes, we saw Legolas. He and his company passed through our wood some weeks ago, and we received word from Mithrandir shortly after that a final stand was nearing in the south. We were not given enough time to send warriors to them, but we thought we could at least play our part near our own home.”

Laerwen does not need the lady’s psychic powers to know that her father is thinking, _At long last_. And she supposes it is a testament to Galadriel’s own stern self-control that she reacts to it not at all.

“Well,” Laerwen says – and what does it matter if she speaks out of turn? She is not the novice she was an age ago, when last confronted with an army of Noldor warriors and the possible end of their time. “If you are here, then we may attack together – and with an unlooked-for increase in numbers, perhaps we may allow ourselves to hope.”

“We will take counsel together then,” nods the lady. “Tell us, what had you planned for your forces?”

"Throw yourselves at the fortress in force without further consideration?" asks Celeborn, raising an eyebrow at Thranduil.

Laerwen knows not if it is a slight at their history or a mere jest between kinfolk; Thranduil does not react in either case, arching an eyebrow right back until they look like mirror images. "Had you a better plan?"

"One better informed, perhaps," says the lady in haste, "by superior resources." She rests one hand at the pommel of her sword – a slim thing, graceful but deadly-looking, just like her. "I believe I can bring down their defenses, if brought near enough, but whatever forces remain here will sense me coming." She does not speak of why, but the answer – long suspected, if never spoken aloud – reverberates all around them.

"Then we will approach first," says Thranduil. "We are better-equipped than your warriors to move in stealth, and we have a party of scouts and archers that can infiltrate any defenses."

"Any?" Perhaps Celeborn is more inclined to challenge them because of his wife's serene command of herself – he feels he must compensate? Laerwen presses her lips together. "You are confident in their skill. Will they bear it out?"

Laerwen bristles on Legolas's behalf, for all that he is not present to be slighted. "Did you notice them when they breached yours?”

Celeborn goes quiet, then gives a slow nod. "We will be in safe hands indeed, then," he says. "They will lead us, then, and pick off the first wave of defenses; then your soldiers will draw the fire and attention of the foes so that we may support you from behind without their knowledge?"

For all that it has always been their plan – indeed, for all that their odds are greater with the forces of Lothlórien at their backs – Laerwen still despises the thought. But she grinds her teeth together hard and nods. "We will not be far behind them," she adds. "So you had best be at the ready."

Galadriel smiles – not the gentle, serene smile of one who knows her own wisdom, but wide, toothy, bloodthirsty. The kind of grin that appeases something hungry and ravaged in Laerwen’s spirit. "Believe me," she says. "We will."

* * *

Quietly, cautiously, with ears pricked at all times for any sound from around them, they merge their camps. They remain some distance away from the fortress – hopefully distant enough that the only foes who spot them will be far enough away not to cry for help when they are picked off, but near enough that if they begin their approach at dawn, it will be high midday when they attack.

They may not have the sun to aid them, but it will tax the Enemy's power to keep it suppressed at a time when it yearns to shine. That, at least, will be to their advantage.

Like the Greenwood, Lórien is much changed since the last time they fought together, an age ago. Many of them are Galadriel's people, come with her from Eregion long ago, after the last Sindarin ruler left them, after many of the Silvans who lived there dispersed or faded into the woods. But here and there, Laerwen spies a familiar face – someone she met briefly, fought with, thousands of years hence.

One of them approaches her after they have finished laying out the tents and handing out rations. “Thranduiliel?" he says, almost disbelieving.

"Iacordof." She does not think they knew one another well, but her impressions of that time were all hazy and unclear, clouded by fear and grief and unspecified guilt. She is not the same elf she was then.

"You are she, then." He looks her up and down, weariness tugging at the corners of his eyes. "I suppose I should have expected it, but I remember you as little more than a child, and to see you now commanding an army" – He shakes his head. "You were younger then than any of them" – he gestures out at all their people – "are now, but like children they all feel to me nonetheless, not soldiers to be sent against an uncaring enemy. And it is our duty now to look after them." He rests a hand on her own for just a moment; the touch should feel presumptuous – she outranks him now, even if she did not before – but it does not. "I trust you, Thranduiliel," he says. "Take care of them."

For all the youth of so many of her soldiers, Laerwen does not often feel this old.

* * *

Without the sun, the light of day is little more than pale-brown slivers through the trees - no soft grey dawn heralding the oncoming sun, but a dust-colored filter that barely suffices to light their way. It will have to be enough.

The Lórien elves are more disturbed than the Greenwood forces, Laerwen thinks; they, of course, who have lived in gold light for so long have not had to learn to use their ears and their intuition in the deep pockets of the forest where light fails; they have not learned to hear the sounds of danger and warning in the whispers of the surrounding forest. Of course, all is so sick here that it is scarcely a hum – but they were prepared for that.

Laerwen dares, for half an instant, to believe that the trees can recover. That they can be saved to rediscover their voices, to wake from their slumbering stupor to a world that embraces them again.

Then she draws the curtains on that window of hope. Later. Later she will allow herself to think on it – if a later is yet to come.

Eleniel and Legolas's archers take to the trees, and so great is their skill and stealth that Laerwen's keen ears can detect only the faintest occasional rustle – and that only because she knows to listen for it. the more telling indication of their presence is the choked-off gasps as the guards they approach fall with arrows in their throat.

They are guards, sentries, stationed out a mile or so from the fortress. They did not look for an attack from the elves, it seems, for there are few, and they are not on their guard. They fall easily, and the elves advance.

(It is not enough, Laerwen reminds herself. It is not enough to hope.)

They draw nearer. Even the meager light of the not-sun fades now into the thick swirling mist; the fog lies cold and clammy on Laerwen’s skin, and tendrils creep up her arms as though seeking an entry through her body into her spirit.

She can feel the others faltering beside her, but they press on together, weapons at the ready. They have lived in _Mirkwood_ for long enough. This gloom may be more concentrated, but they know it; they can fight it.

And then, sudden and huge, the shape of the ruined fortress looms up at them out of the mist.

It has been long since Laerwen has seen it, wrapped as it has so often been in the forbidding cloud of mist that drives them away – it is dilapidated, in shambles as ever, but ringed with heavy black walls. The Enemy has had his servants at work, it seems. Those walls they must take down, and Laerwen knows they must trust to the Lady to do it.

She can hear no sign any longer of the archers’ presence. Have they drawn closer? What will be the sign to attack?

She has no chance to give it.

Like the sight of the fortress, the sound comes with no build – it must have been masked with wards of some kind of dark sorcery, for orcs cannot be so quiet on their own. A faint rumble, a hint of voices – and then the gates to the fortress burst open and they are engulfed in a horde of roaring, reeking orcs.

“Draw!” her father commands, his voice ringing clear over the din after long hours of silence. Their arrival may not have been anticipated – else they would have been picked off long before now – but the Enemy has the advantage of numbers, and it does not matter if they have caught Dol Guldur at least the slightest bit unaware.

But they are ready, and each elf among them – _yéni_ old, battle-tested and long prepared for this – is the match of a dozen orcs at least. Around Laerwen, swords sing free from sheaths; arrows whine over her head, but she fears them not – the Greenwood’s archers do not miss.

She has been in skirmishes, but she has not faced so many foes at once in long years, has not stood before such evil gates in an age – but her body remembers: ducking and rising, slashing and stabbing, whirl under a blow to deal one of her own to an opponent’s legs while striking with the opposite arm to break a limb – She remembers the lesson learned long ago: _do not hesitate; it is your life or theirs_.

She chooses hers.

But she keeps half an ear alert for the others around her; she can feel, just from the warmth of a nearby limb, if it belongs to friend or foe, and she listens to the screams to satisfy herself that few enough of them come from the mouths of elves –

She does not think about the casualties that will ensue. If this is their last stand, they will die bravely.

And die they may.

This force, mighty as it was, is just the beginning; they are pushing forward, driven by her father’s orders to advance; stumbling over the blood-soaked bodies of creatures who may once have been their own kind; hacking their way inch by painful inch closer to the gates – but no sooner has the first elf reached out for the black metal than the gates swing open again, and the second wave pours out, bigger and more powerful than the first.

Laerwen has no time to react, but she hears a sob somewhere off to her left – someone wounded? Someone fallen? Or merely someone too exhausted to imagine the possibility of more than what they have already endured? She stumbles in that direction, beheading an orc with an almost careless strike – is it someone who will need protection? But even through her own hardened defenses, those that keep her from hope and despair alike, she can recognize the exhaustion – the force of orcs bears down on them; they barely survived the first; how can they think to live through this, let alone win –

And then many things happen at once.

Behind Laerwen, the world erupts in light – an unearthly, powerful glow of the sort that she has never seen in her life. For an instant, everyone stands transfixed in the glow, and Laerwen can feel that it is coming from the Lady Galadriel. The very air itself seems to hum; the orcs quail for a moment, and in that pause, the lady takes a breath that all of them can hear, and then thunders, “**_Á lanta!_**” in a voice that reverberates with might.

At the same time, the world rumbles – a deep, groaning shudder that comes not from the earth beneath their feet nor the fortress before them nor even the sky above them, but somehow all at once. It is as though something in the very fabric of the world around them has changed, a note has disappeared from the song that surrounds them all, and the symphony has had to alter itself for the change. Everyone in the forest stumbles, elf and orc alike, though the ground has not moved beneath them – and the sun bursts out over the woods, the mist around them dissipating and sunlight filtering through the branches of the trees as it has not in a thousand years, in this place.

For a moment, all the world is bright with the light of Galadriel and the rays of the sun – and then Galadriel’s spell makes contact with the black metal walls of the fortress, and they _explode_.

Laerwen cannot make it out perfectly, not in the sudden confusion of noise and light and _change_, but the black walls themselves seem to disappear in a flash, as though they were made of nothing more than horror itself woven into evil wards – at least, it is not metal shards that fly outward, but _fire_. With a great crackling roar, an inferno blazes forth; the fortress crashes like an unsteady campfire into splinters of wood, and the forest erupts in screaming.

All is chaos; orcs and elves alike howl in fear; blades flash, and it is all Laerwen can do to dodge them with instincts honed over thousands of years. The orcs are no longer charging them, but running in all directions, their roars of terror sounding more like agony than anything else. Some small part of Laerwen realizes what that means, but she cannot process it, for her forest is burning.

And they are not prepared to stop it.

“Fall back!” her father roars over the din, again and again – in command, but only barely. This is no last stand; this foe is not one they can fight. “_Fall back!_”

“To the river!” she screams in response, something shredding in her voice as she does. “_The river!_” The river is to the north; they crossed it yesterday so if they run with all their strength they can make it; they can find water to douse themselves, to save themselves; perhaps the lady yet has some magic left to redirect the water; perhaps they can save some part of the woods. She glances behind her and sees Galadriel stumbling, drained from her magic, perhaps? Celeborn holds her up with an arm, his sword in the other. They can take care of themselves – where are her soldiers – _where are the archers?_

The trees are burning; they were in the trees; where are they; where are they – Laerwen looks frantically around; she cannot see through the press of orcs, who no longer bother to fight, but flee in every direction, in total disarray the antithesis of their cohesive attack before. Where are the archers – they are fleeing; crying out, dropping from trees, cradling burned hands; Laerwen counts them; where is Legolas?

Legolas is not here; of course Legolas is not here; she remembers that now; how could she have forgotten – but Eleniel? Where is Eleniel?

Laerwen screams her name, and the response she hears is wordless and bloodcurdling: a long, tearing shriek that fades into silence.

_There!_ Laerwen’s eyes fall on her, and then the ground seems to leave beneath her feet and she sprints, flies – Eleniel is hardly recognizable, trapped in the crook of a tree; she must have been shimmying down it when the press of orcs caught her in their midst. They do not attack, but waves upon waves of them surge against her in their attempt to flee, jamming her face harder up against the burning trunk; her body jerks with their motions, but no longer does she struggle or cry out, and Laerwen prays she has only lost consciousness, prays she is not –

Her sword is alive in her hand as she runs; she does not _care_ that the orcs are fleeing not fighting; she will hack them to _pieces_ if she must; she carves through their huddle as though they are whittling wood, a whirlwind of death; they seem nearly senseless but they at least know to avoid her as she tears through them until she is at the center – Eleniel’s face is smashed against the trunk, blistered nearly unrecognizable; flames lick up her hair and her right hand is wrapped around a branch as if she could not manage to pull it free. She is unconscious, and Laerwen can only be glad of it, for she does not have the time to be gentle; she rips Eleniel free, and hears a faint gruesome sucking sound as burst blisters peel away from the trunk. The forest is still on fire around them and she must run, but first – she throws Eleniel to the ground, and tears off her own tunic – it is all she has; the leather brigandine over it has singed to scraps without her notice, but it left the garment beneath undamaged enough for this – and wraps it around Eleniel’s head and body until the flames are smothered.

Then she throws Eleniel over her shoulder – and why does this position feel so familiar? – and runs.

Eleniel is lighter than Siril, easier to carry; even holding her, Laerwen catches up the ranks of fleeing soldiers; there are fewer than before, but she cannot manage to tally who has not made it out alive, in disarray they flee, with the forest crying agony behind them – the trees who have regained their voices just in time to release their final screams of death.

* * *

They reunite on the other side of the river, where some of their healers have hastily set up a camp to minister to the wounded. Laerwen carries Eleniel to them and sets her down to be tended, and then she goes to her father where he stands with the lord and lady of Lórien. Galadriel still falters, staring at her left hand as though half in a daze; Thranduil and Celeborn sport dozens of bleeding wounds and burns – and so, Laerwen realizes, does she herself. She stands before them in her breastband and breeches, skin smeared with blood from her own wounds and the clear liquid that oozed from Eleniel’s, and none of them need say a word to know they will not be crossing again, not even to help their beloved trees.

“Perhaps,” she offers weakly, after a moment of silence, “perhaps something beautiful will bloom from the ashes?”

“Something young,” Thranduil says, with a wry twist of his mouth, “with new green leaves.”

“Green leaves,” Laerwen echoes. “That feeling – the sun – the orcs fleeing. Does that mean what I think it means?” She lowers her voice to a whisper, hardly daring to say it aloud. “Is he . . . gone?”

Galadriel blinks, seeming to recover herself. “He is gone,” she says. “His source of power is destroyed, and he with it.” And for the first time, she tugs at her hand, and something comes into view – a small silver ring, resting in her open palm.

For all it was rumored, Laerwen can only stare at it. It looks so plain, compared to the miracles she knows it has wrought. “What will become of Lothlórien?” she whispers.

“I do not know,” Galadriel says. “That will be for others to decide. For myself . . .” She tilts her head slightly up, and in the direction of far-away West. “I will go home.”

“And who else will come home?” Laerwen murmurs, her heart lurching at the thought of their own young green leaf, so far away. Sauron has been defeated – but at what cost?

Her father reaches out and rests a hand on her shoulder. “We can only wait,” he says softly, “and hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Á lanta!_ = "Fall!" (imperative)


	43. Part VI, Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time is speeding up again. Basically, this one short chapter encapsulates the entire timespan of the series prior to this story, starting from chapter 25 of _Finding a Voice_ (from which some dialogue is taken directly or paraphrased), filling in a little missing moment from _To the Sea_, and extending through _Sweet Sorrow._ I don't know that I quite got across the impact I wanted with the writing, but the point is: we are nearing the end, folks.

The word comes to them in the rustling of leaves, the chattering of squirrels, the whispering of the wind: _the prince is returning!_

When it reaches her, Laerwen throws a pile of documents to the floor – the trade agreements with Dale and Erebor, altered to reflect the recovery periods for all three kingdoms. They flutter every which way, and she merely leaps over them and runs down the hall.

“Adar!” she shouts, rushing through the dining hall that has been repurposed as an infirmary, ignoring the stares of the healers, not caring who hears her. “Adar!” She bangs open the door to the council room, and finds him standing there waiting for her, his own pile of papers abandoned, his advisors packing up to depart. They only need share one glance before she knows that he has heard.

“Bring him home,” is all he says, and she turns and runs back the way she came.

Legolas is returning! She will see Legolas in only a few short hours – only as long as it takes to meet him where he is, and the forest will show her the way. She received his word that he was well and would make his way home, but _ah_ a letter is not the same, _ah_ to see him, to hold him in her arms once more and know he is real and alive and whole –

She chooses a path through the trees, and they guide her, leading her on a path that will take her to him while avoiding any leftover patches of orcs or the spiders that still roam the woods. She has no heart to kill today; it is life she wants, not death.

Hooves! Hoofbeats, and heartbeats, and breathing – two people; Legolas is not alone, but she cannot spare even a fraction of a thought for that, because she can hear his breathing, and then his head comes into view, and all stealth is lost, and she cries out his name.

“Laerwen!” he gasps, and his voice is so familiar and so beloved, and he slides down from his horse and he is in her arms and she wonders if she will ever be able to let him go again.

“Legolas, my Greenleaf,” she half-sobs into his hair, hardly aware of what she says, lost in the feeling of him breathing against her, the knowledge that he is here, he is alive, he is well, he is . . . different.

She pulls back and takes it in again: something in his posture has changed, steadied. He bears marks of weariness, yes, of new sadness – but also of a joy that she did not expect to see, one that speaks of more than merely homecoming.

And then her eyes turn to the horse he rides, and the dwarf who still sits astride.

Eleniel told them of a dwarf – Gimli, son of Glóin who was imprisoned in their halls decades ago – that he would accompany the fellowship sent out on the quest Legolas too joined. This must be he, but – why is he here? Why does he ride with Legolas? What –

But when she tries to ask, all Legolas will say is, “Look into my eyes.” And she does – looks past her own joy at his return to see what truly lies within them – and she sees his whole life pass before them.

Married? Her brother, her shy, nervous, wonderful brother wed in the space of mere months, to a mortal – to a dwarf? Her vibrant, generous, bright-souled brother tied to a mortal life doomed to run out before a single _yén _has passed?

“No,” she whispers, tears rising in her throat unlike any she has ever wept before.

“Yes,” Legolas says.

Her voice strangles to a mere whisper in her throat as she asks him how – why – how he can bear to do this to himself, to them? Has he not lost enough? Has _she_ not lost enough?

“To turn him away would be to lose myself,” he says, fierce and determined, sure as she so rarely hears him – his eyes clear and steady against her own pleading gaze, his hands firm in her own. “He carries part of my soul now, and – sister – he gives me a voice.”

She clings to his hands, the only thing holding her steady against the storm in her heart, and gazes into his eyes. There – there, where she can deny it no longer – she sees the new shape of his soul: not dwindled, not diminished, but somehow grown greater and brighter to encompass this new love, this new confidence and certainty.

It has not yet been two hundred years; has she forgotten so quickly? It comes back to her in a rush, the memory – of how it felt for her, so long ago now, to have her own soul reshaped in the hands of another, her own eyes opened to the beauty of a second heart, bound to her own. For an instant the pang that stabs through her heart holds nothing of these recent losses, but is a reminder of the other half of her own soul, still waiting for her – that half that she promised years ago to join once more. She has known this kind of love, and Legolas knows it; why else would he look at her so defiantly, as though only waiting for her to acknowledge a truth she already knows?

So she looks at this dwarf who holds her brother’s heart in his hands, this Gimli who has dared to ride into the Greenwood – into _Mirkwood_ – at Legolas’s side to declare his intentions –

And she cannot hold onto her anger, even as grief seeps into her heart, threatening to drag her under. She thinks about the new name her father proposed for their forest only yesterday – _Lasgalen, _for the green leaves they hope will flourish now and the wayward Greenleaf they hoped so fervently would return – and it seems somehow more appropriate than ever before. The forest will remember him forever, even if he is doomed to be as he is for only a short time yet to come. Even if he is doomed to leave her too, as so many have before.

“Come now,” she says, and as she leads them back home, she tucks each second spent with Legolas into her memory – to hold against her heart for when he leaves her again.

* * *

Later he tells them that the gulls have captured his heart: that the tales of sea-longing to which Laerwen has never given credence are true, and that he is doomed to sail west before too long – that he will be the third member of their family they are bound to lose over sea. When he says it, Laerwen’s eyes flicker to the dwarf, and the sorrow and regret in his eyes speak for him like nothing Legolas could ever say.

That night, she gives Gimli her blessing. And over a hundred years, she has no cause to regret it – not when he stills Legolas’s nervous hands and restless energy, not when Legolas’s eyes and soul shine at Gimli’s smile. Not when she can see in both of their faces the echo of a love that she once knew, a love that – she must remember – still waits for her, for their reunion, in a _someday_ she promised would come.

* * *

“Will you sail ever, do you think?”

They are in Ithilien when he asks her, in the settlement he has built through his own compassion and courage and belief that the world can be made beautiful again – but he leans against her, weak from a battle within his spirit that she can never hope to understand, and she cannot help but remember how much it costs him to stay here, every day.

Her own courage pales in comparison to his, she thinks.

“I must,” she murmurs. “Someday. We will all end up there eventually, I know. But I find it so impossible to imagine . . .” She trails off. What will that _someday_ look like? She cannot conceive of the torment that rages within Legolas’s soul, for all that she can see it in his eyes – she cannot imagine longing for a world other than this one. Even though she knows that peace awaits her there, even though she knows that Siril must be growing impatient – she cannot picture herself anywhere other than here.

“So did I,” Legolas murmurs. His eyes flutter to Gimli, arguing playfully with Eleniel in accented Sindarin, and his shoulders sag. “Even now I cannot imagine leaving him . . . but I know some day I will not have the strength to fight it any longer.”

Laerwen wraps an arm around his shoulders and squeezes him close to her. “May that day be long in coming,” she murmurs.

* * *

It can never be as long as she wishes, and a season – a blink – a hundred years later she is in Ithilien again, this time to wish him farewell. But the parting is not as bitter as it could be, for at least, she thinks, he does not travel alone.

“Give her my greetings,” she whispers – the first time she has spoken of Siril aloud in a mortal lifetime. “And tell her – tell her I remember my promise.”

Legolas hugs her hard, presses a kiss to her forehead. Looks at her with a kind of wisdom that she thinks she has never known in her life, for all that his has been so much shorter. “I will.”


	44. Part VI, Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH WE ARE ALMOST THERE! I don't even know what I'm going to do with myself after this! But here we go!

The years pass.

They seem to go by all at once, swallowed up ten at a time in the great chasm of time – but every hour stretches on like the wait between lightning strikes in a summer storm. Every day, Laerwen finds herself waiting for sunset – but even the sunsets seem to blend all into one another, so she might look up one day and realize that years have gone by when she thought it was merely a day or two.

There is less to do these days; she and Thranduil grow idle as the kingdom moves on without their aid, as the other settlements of elves depart or fade. The age has turned, and the elves can feel it.

Ithilien dwindles. Eleniel sends word some hundred years after Legolas has sailed that she is leaving Celair as the sole lord of Ithilien; that she plans to wander for some time by herself and then make her own way to the Havens. Celair follows some twenty years after, and ze names no replacement. The elves of Ithilien send no more word to their parent kingdom, and not one of them returns.

The heart of the forest, where the elves reside, is as lush as it ever was before the shadow, and on rarer and rarer occasions Laerwen can lose herself as thoroughly as before in the tending of a garden or grove, in the high boughs of a beloved tree. But outside, their boundaries shrink as the surrounding kingdoms of men encroach on their borders: first with axes, then with larger machines that spit steam and roar loudly enough that Laerwen can hear them from miles away.

Her father sends her to speak to the leaders of the men, to warn them of the settlement and inform them that they are breaking treaties forged long ago. When she emerges from the trees, the men cry out and drop their weapons, shrinking back from her. They bring her to their leader without protest, without negotiation, tossing terrified glances in her direction as they go.

When she asks the leader about it, he says only, “We thought you were a myth.”

They agree easily enough to halt their expansion – perhaps the shock of her presence has frightened them into acquiescence, or they fear they will be struck down by the fury of some divine avenger. But a bare hundred years pass, and they begin again.

She asks her father if she ought to return, but he merely shakes his head wearily. “What would be the use?”

They are dwindling, too. The Silvan elves have begun to retreat further and further into themselves, into the forest. None of them announce their plans to sail, but they seem to be fewer in number with every _yén _that passes. Perhaps they are departing, or fleeing – or perhaps, Laerwen begins to suspect, they are merely fading into the forest, becoming more wraiths than elves, spirits of the trees. Perhaps they are becoming the legends that the men fear, but without the divine fury that Laerwen seemed to threaten to those who cowered before her.

There is nothing left for the royals to do; the Silvan advisors have left them along with their subjects, and the last of their Sindarin companions sailed long ago.

Laerwen does not know how much time has passed before she wonders if it is time for her to follow.

She does not feel the sea-longing as Legolas described it: there is no yearning for a land of peace, no ache of sickness for a home she has never known. Waves do not crash in her dreams, do not promise eternity – the forest river has always been enough for her; what use has she for saltwater and tides? For her there is only a lonely emptiness, and the wondering if maybe, just maybe, there might be something more.

She and her father speak less these days; there is little to discuss, and all that they need to say passes easily between them in gazes and a kindred loneliness. But for this, she must bring herself to speak aloud.

“Adar,” she says, and he actually starts at the sound of her voice.

“Laerwen.”

Something in his tone tells her he knows what she is about to ask, but she says it anyway. To speak the words aloud is to make them real, and if she is to do this, she must dare to do at least this. She draws in a deep breath, and commits herself to speak past the lump in her throat.

“Have you thought about Aman?”

Only a short indrawn breath reveals his surprise, but Laerwen knows her father well. He is not surprised that she has thought of it – how could she not, with their family divided as it is? No, his only surprise is that she has dared to speak it out loud.

He does not answer outright. “If you are asking me this,” he says, “then it means you have.”

It has been long since she has heard her father spar with words, but she has no interest in defending herself. “Yes,” she says.

“Will you sail?”

She sucks in a breath. Will she? She did not expect him to ask so openly, or so soon – she expected, she supposes, a bit of bandying about, or even argument: expected him to try persuading her one way or the other. But the way he asks her now – _will she sail_ – it is only a question of fact. A question of inevitability. He knows, she realizes, what she did not. Once an elf begins to think of Aman, there is no argument to be had.

“Yes,” she whispers again, and she feels the sting behind her eyes of tears – the first tears she has wept in a thousand years.

He nods slowly, his jaw tightening – that tiniest twitch revealing the depth of pain that they have shared wordlessly for years beyond count. Without thinking too hard about it, she reaches forward and seizes his hands – realizing only at the flinch-shock of contact that this too they have been without for centuries. “Will you come with me?”

The silence is long.

He has not shielded himself from her in so long, but his face closes up, his grey eyes inscrutable. She tries to read him and can see nothing but the pain and the emptiness.

“I told myself long ago,” he says quietly, “that I would not leave this world while there was still evil lurking at our borders, while there were still elves here who needed me.”

“They do not need us,” she says. “Not anymore. We are fading, Adar. Those who can leave will leave; those who will never feel a call will merely become part of the world as Ents faded into trees. I feel no call to sail, but I cannot allow myself to fade, either, not while there are” –

_Not while there are people waiting for me._

She does not say it aloud, but she knows he can see it. “They are waiting for you, too, Adar,” she says instead. “I made a promise long ago that I would be reunited with those who love me. I know they would call upon you to do the same.”

He looks down at where their hands are still clasped. “I know,” he says – nothing more.

But when she begins to collect wood, he follows her down to the riverbank and helps her assemble her ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END OF PART VI.


	45. Epilogue

They do not leave Siril’s small cottage all night.

Dimly, Laerwen knows there are things she must attend to: there are others to greet, after all; there is a land to explore and customs to learn, and – but she cannot bear to do so, not yet, not when that would mean leaving this cozy space, this safe nakedness, this new-rediscovered closeness between them.

Laerwen glories in Siril’s body spread beneath her, her unbound hair spilling over the pillows in a gleaming mass, her eyes shut in ecstasy and her forehead shining with sweat from the sweetest exertion. And when she has finished her work, has left Siril gasping for breath and stuttering words of worship, she sweeps her hands over her beloved’s body, finds the scars that she last saw as inflamed gashes, now only light lines on rich brown skin. She traces them gently with hands and lips, these barely-there reminders of the long years of their separation, these wounds carved into her own spirit so long ago.

Siril catches her wrists in gentle hands, and Laerwen looks up into warm eyes filled with heartbreaking kindness.

“You are here now,” Siril whispers, reminds her, and Laerwen believes that her own scars might at last begin to heal.

They have one another many times, in many different ways: one night is not enough, of course, to make up all the time they have lost, but it is enough to let them both know how sweet the relearning will be. But it is more than just pleasure; this lovemaking—it is the comfort of lying skin to skin, that warmth seeping into Laerwen’s body and soothing the chill that has dwelt in her for so long she has almost ceased to notice it. It is the slide of fingers through her hair as a voice murmurs into her ears of sunlight and gold. It is the whispering back and forth over a shared pillow late at night, their breath mingling in words of no consequence, whose meaning matters nothing in comparison to the feeling of sharing them. Siril pulls gasps of lust and laughter from her as easily as ever; it feels no time has passed at all, and yet with every moment the wonder of being together again after so long rises in Laerwen until she can do nothing but sing from the joy of it.

And when at last she gives in to the urge and lets the swell inside her spill out of her in a melody unlike any she has ever sung before, Siril rises from their bed and dances for her; her body moves in graceful waves so hypnotic and familiar that Laerwen can watch no longer. She rises to her knees and seizes Siril’s shoulders, presses herself forward until she can feel those sinuous motions against her own body, and she keeps singing until the dance bears them both back onto the bed and her song devolves into stuttering, off-pitch notes that Siril assures her have never sounded sweeter.

It is near dawn, and she does not think they have slept, though at times they might have drifted, when finally she brings herself to ask. She rolls to face Siril, places a light hand on the side of her neck – and it is like old times between them, like when her brother was little more than a child, and they would speak in low voices, hoping he would not come into their chamber from his own, hoping even more that he would not hear them discussing him. And even now, Siril’s face sobers, for surely the memory is as alive in her body as in Laerwen’s own. Surely she understands what must come now.

“I wish I needed not ask so soon,” Laerwen says, “but you know I would not be myself if I did not.” She takes another deep breath, pulling the shell of duty and protection back over herself – but there is only so much she can do, for ever he has been one of the few who can slip through it easier than a ghost. Again she sees his face in her mind, as it was on the shores: lost and lonely, as though again he _is _that child she remembers – but no, not the child. The near-adult, too old to find the same uncomplicated joy, the easy laughter, in everything around him, and yet too young to see where he could rediscover it. That laughter – always the sound of it has brought her the fullest joy, and she could see no trace of it on his face when she embraced him. “Tell me: how fares Legolas?”

Siril only sighs and shakes her head.

“So poorly, then?” Again, Laerwen’s body goes heavy with regret—she ought to have sailed sooner; she ought to have realized that her duties lay no longer in Middle-earth but all here long ago. “And Gimli . . .”

“Passed long _yén__i_ since.” Siril twirls a lock of Laerwen’s hair around one of her fingers; Laerwen leans back enough to feel the tug as a sting of pain reproaching her for failing her brother so sorely. “He was a delight, truly; more than I could have ever imagined a dwarf would be. And had only fond words to speak of you, if you wish to know.”

Laerwen smiles sadly. “And I of him. Did you not see how Legolas was around him – how joyful, how light of heart?” The dwarf seemed to bring out her brother at his best self – the laughing soul Laerwen can still remember from his very young childhood, from moments here and there when he was alone with her or when she would witness him competing with Eleniel at archery or singing to the stars. There has always been joy at the heart of Legolas, but Laerwen has sometimes despaired of seeing it quashed or threatened by fear, uncertainty, responsibility, dread. But Gimli seemed to bring it out with no effort—merely by being himself.

“I saw, but only in moments.” Siril lets go the strand of hair, as though she knows Laerwen is using her hold to cause herself pain. “It was only shortly after they arrived here that they seemed to become aware that though Gimli’s life would be extended, it would not be indefinite. And then there was ever an edge of fear in him, worse even than in his younger years.”

Laerwen swallows. “And when . . . ?”

Siril shakes her head. “It was some six _yén__i_ ago, I believe, and I—I have heard not a word from Legolas since.”

“Oh.” Laerwen closes her eyes. “I should have . . .”

“You did what you thought was best,” says Siril. “But it is good you are here now. I dare to hope you may bring him comfort that the rest of us are unable to give.”

“There is only one who can bring him the comfort he needs,” Laerwen says softly. “As I think you know.”

“I know.” Siril curves a palm against the side of Laerwen’s face, traces a finger at the corner of her eye. “But I know too that there are other comforts to be found, even when the pain of missing one’s beloved feels more insurmountable than any physical wound ever could be.” Her eyes are steady on Laerwen’s. “And that the memory of a loved one is a treasure worth having, even if the lover is no longer present to be a reminder. Legolas may have near eternity to wait before he and his love are reunited, but it will not be eternity itself. All we can do is ease the wait as best we may.”

Laerwen swallows. She cannot help but feel that Gimli’s mortality is a failure of her own, somehow – that, impossible as it is, she could have protected Legolas from this pain, if only she had tried harder. But what is done is done, and she knows that her brother was her life’s greatest comfort in her own long years of loneliness.

It is time for her to return the favor.

“You are right, of course,” she says. “As you have always been. I cannot protect him from this pain – but I must trust that I can ease it, somehow, as he” – _As he eased mine when you were away._

She does not finish the sentence, but Siril twines her fingers into the hair at Laerwen’s temple, smiles at her so softly that Laerwen knows she has understood. “If anyone can,” she says, “then you.”

Laerwen curls her head forward and kisses Siril’s collarbone, reveling in the familiar warmth between them, that memory of lazy mornings gone by. “There is so much that I cannot do,” she murmurs, “it feels I have spent all my life learning only that, but – but if you can be here, if after a thousand years apart I can still fit so well into your arms, then perhaps that thought is not so impossible after all.”

And with that, she sits up, preparing herself to rise – to leave the small hut and step into the new life that awaits her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s . . . over. I can’t believe it – I’ve been working on this story since I had the sudden flash of an idea for the first chapter in January 2019. I thought it would be just the one chapter, and I would never post it, but then I kept wanting to write piece after piece of their backstory, and somehow it bloomed into this monstrosity – which is, officially, the longest thing I have ever written. And in a sense, I suppose I’ve been working on it even longer – ever since I first came up with the idea of Laerwen and wove her so intimately into my characterization of Legolas.
> 
> I’ve tried for a long time to figure out exactly what this story is: at first I thought it was a love story, then a coming-of-age story, and now I guess I’ve just settled on the notion that it’s an origin story – for Laerwen and Siril, but also for Legolas and Mirkwood as a whole. I’ve joked a lot about becoming a full-blown Mirkwood apologist through the process of writing this story, but I’ve come to love this realm and the elves who inhabit it so much. I know there’s so much lore and worldbuilding I left out, and there’s still so much I wish I could include in this story – but I think ultimately I have to accept that for what it is and what it became, I just couldn’t afford to include everything. The process of writing this involved so much combing of so many different Tolkien wikis – and often, just making things up myself – but really what I was here for are the characters, and I truly hope that reading them has been a satisfying experience.
> 
> I’ve read enough LOTR fic now that there is probably unconscious influence from so many different sources, but I want to credit author [Thundera Tiger](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/12399/Thundera-Tiger) for many of my ideas about the attitudes and environment of pre-trilogy Mirkwood, particularly the stories [Horatio’s Philosophy](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8529570/1/Horatio-s-Philosophy); [Father, Captain, and King](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/1921569/1/Father-Captain-and-King); and [A Mirkwood Solstice](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/1211398/1/A-Mirkwood-Solstice). If you’re looking for further reading after this, I absolutely recommend those stories.
> 
> Finally – this story has been built out of so much of my own writing over the past three years, imaginary character interactions that never came to fruition and characters and plot points that all piled on top of one another. This story feels like the culmination of the Finding a Voice series (which is not to say that the series is over, because I will probably never be completely done with it!) – a combination of prequel and sequel, about a character who, while she may not have much “screen” time, is woven into the fabric of the ‘verse. I haven’t gone back through and read them side by side, but I tentatively believe (and really hope) that if you choose to read this as Legolas’s origin story, [Finding a Voice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12953445/chapters/29610249) will still stand up well and follow naturally.
> 
> If you’re still with me after those notes – I just want to say a huge thank you to anyone who has come this far – especially those who have been reading and commenting since the beginning. I know OCs are not really why people come here, and I’m so grateful to every person who has been here for mine and been willing to come on this journey with me. Thank you.


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